Trust Training For Doctors And Detectives
by Ksunel
Summary: While solving a case, Sherlock is forced to choose: save John of save himself. So what choice will he make? Case-fic. A bit of fluff. Translated from Russian into English by JennaEf. Un-betaed.
1. Chapter 1

**Allergens (substances that cause allergies) stimulate the body to release chemicals. These chemicals cause inflammation. If this inflammation causes the skin to swell, the condition is called angioedema. Angioedema is similar to hives, but it occurs deeper in the skin.**

**Allergic angioedema may be triggered by allergies to foods, drugs, latex, or insect stings. It also occurs in children with an infection or autoimmune disorders. Although it is rare, some children have a form of angioedema that is inherited.**

**Angioedema occurs suddenly, within minutes to hours after exposure to an allergen. Swelling usually appears on the face, lips, mouth, throat, arms and legs, or genitals. The swelling is patchy and asymmetrical. The skin will be red. Hives may also develop. The areas are usually painful and warm, but not itchy. The swelling goes away in a day or two without leaving any marks. In some cases, angioedema can affect the bowels and cause colicky abdominal pain. The throat and airways in the lungs can also become swollen, causing difficulty breathing.**

**Mild symptoms go away on their own and do not require treatment. Moderate symptoms may be treated with antihistamines and corticosteroids to stop itching and swelling. Abdominal pain may be treated with pain medications. Severe symptoms, such as a swollen throat, are a medical emergency. To help a child who is having trouble breathing, certain invasive procedures may be done to ensure that the child is able to breathe.**

* * *

"So, what do you think about all of this?"

The voices were echoing, bouncing off the white smooth walls of the morgue.

"Four ideas, so far…"

"Such as?"

There was the rustling of a notebook pages, then the sound of a pen being clicked.

"…which I'm not going to share with your lot until I see the toxicology and autopsy reports…"

"But, Sherlock!..."

"…on each of the five victims, Lestrade. This conversation is over."

The DI sighed with exasperation.

"Fine."

"O, please, spare me your dramatics," the detective pulled the latex gloves off and, without even looking, trust them in John's direction; the good doctor, who stood behind his back, barely had the time to snatch them before they ended up on the floor. "This wouldn't have happened, if you bothered to come sooner. So let's hear what the Scotland Yard managed to find out. Any leads?"

"How about getting out of here first, Sherlock?" Lestrade shuddered involuntarily. "I… can't… I don't want to talk about that here."

"Why?" Sherlock surveyed the bodies on the tables absentmindedly.

"Why? WHY?" Lestrade finally had enough. "For God's sake, Sherlock, they are kids!"

The sound of a door slamming shut sounded like a gunshot, shuttering the silence and sending echoes to bounce of walls once again.

John Watson looked at his friend reproachfully.

"What?" the detective snapped. "Have I said something wrong?"

The doctor just sighed and shook his head.

This was Sherlock, after all; what did he expect?

Especially now, when the detective, like a pure-bred hound sensing a trail, was ready to rush forward without hesitation, ignoring everything that was irrelevant, distracting or threatened to come between him and his goal.

The game was on.

And the most terrible thing was that this time there were lives of the innocent children at stake.

"Come on, John," Sherlock felt uncomfortable under his friend's reproachful gaze, although, for the life of him, couldn't find any logical explanation for this fact. "We need to find out what information Lestrade has. Hopefully, his emotional outburst…"

"Sherlock. Shut up," John snapped good-naturedly, pulling the door of the morgue open.

"But…"

"Just shut up."

They found Lestrade outside – leaning against his car and smoking. He was blowing the smoke out slowly, and his eyes were half-closed – seemingly a picture of content, if you don't count the pose. Rigid stance, a hand, balled into a fist and hidden inside the pocket of his unbuttoned raincoat – the DI looked as a taut spring.

A thick folder with the case papers was laid out on a bonnet of the car, and, noticing Sherlock, Lestrade nodded towards it, showing clearly his disinclination to talk. But Holmes at the moment wasn't keen on talking either – he always preferred case reports and documented witness' statements to, as he labeled it, "meaningless chatting".

Especially when aforementioned chatting had those unnecessary human emotions added to it.

John looked at frowning and engrossed in the papers Sherlock, then shifted his gaze to Lestrade.

"Well…"

"Autopsy and toxicology reports on all previous victims are in the folder, the fifth will be ready in the evening…" the DI stubbed out his cigarette and now, instead of throwing it away, was looking at it absently.

"This is not what I was about, Greg," John waved his hand dismissively, scrutinizing the grayish tint of his friend's face. "You smoke? Since when?"

"… he's been smoking since his teenage years," Sherlock piped in automatically, not raising his eyes from the papers and therefore missing Lestrade's deepening frown. "There's a Zippo lighter on the table in his office. With a quite sentimental engraving "To dearest Greg from Phoebe" and a date. Must've been important date for the girl – and for our inspector too, of course, if he's keeping the lighter. Sentiments, obviously. But he doesn't keep it at home, which could mean either his wife is unaware of her husband's smoking habit, or she doesn't approve Lestrade's seemingly romantic attachment to aforementioned Phoebe. From my point of view, both reasons are valid, by the way. The rest is just a simple calculation, which gives us the exact age when the inspector received that lighter…"

"… how did you...?" Lestrade looked at the detective in astonishment, and Sherlock finally deemed necessary to raise his gaze.

"You're always twiddling it when you're nervious."

This simple statement brought a smile first to John's lips, then to Lestrade's.

It wasn't logical at all, but Sherlock felt he had done the right thing this time. He smiled awkwardly with the corners of his lips – a small contribution to the overall mood – and focused his attention on the papers once again.

"Technically, I quit smoking several years ago," Greg sighed and with a well-aimed flick sent the remains of his cigarette into a nearest rubbish bin. "It's just… this case…"

"What's with it? It's not like it's your first time…"

"One of the victims is my niece, John."

The silence was deafening.


	2. Chapter 2

Death occurrences with angioedema are more than possible.

The reasons for that can be various: a medical negligence, a trivial mistake, a time shortage or simply the victim's reluctance in calling an ambulance and unreasonable hope on the off chance.

Therefore, the first victims in London went almost unnoticed. Oh, of course, the facts of children's deaths were considered terrible, and some people expressed their opinions: from indignation ("Parents should have been looking more closely for their children!") to grievance ("How come that the medics were unable to help?"). The press also wasn't paying much attention to these occurrences – but with the ongoing hubbub on account of murderous cabbie's death it wasn't surprising. And Scotland Yard was still pretending to search for the cabbie's killer, so a small article about the death of six-year-old Laura Blacksmith in Brixton, caused by allergic asphyxia which, in turn, was caused by angioedema, hadn't caught much attention.

The parents were heartbroken; they demanded that proceedings should be taken and thorough investigation of the cause of their daughter's death should be issued. But there wasn't a reason to start an investigation, since the girl's death was caused by allergic reaction to chocolate; somebody simply must've given the little one a chocolate or two at that ill-fated moment when the parents weren't looking. Therefore the most logical thing was to blame them for their carelessness.

So what criminal case was here to talk about?

Except maybe the one where the Blacksmith would be called to account for the parental negligence regarding their sick child, which resulted in said child's death?

Four-years-old Yubi Chen was found dead two weeks after Laura's death. The girl's body was discovered in Chinatown, behind the seafood shop. Yubi was extremely allergic to sea products, so the whole thing looked like an unfortunate accident. Well, at least until the autopsy showed the presence of chocolate and absence of the aforementioned sea products.

That's when the first suspicions made an appearance.

By the time Lestrade finally decided to involve Sherlock Holmes in investigation, the score between the killer (and it was the killer, there could be no doubt now) and the police was 5 to 0. In each case cause of death was the same – allergic asphyxia occurring as a result of angioedema; a terrible and extremely painful death for the poor children. Their unrecognisable, swollen faces with dried tear tracks, their crooked fingers clawing at their throats till it bled – that horrible pictures were still haunting the Yarders involved in investigation.

"...so, what do we have..." John leaned back in his armchair. "Five victims. All of them..."

"Four victims."

"...are girls. What?"

"Four victims, John. Didn't you hear me?"

They returned to Baker Street separately.

Right after the morgue Holmes departed to visit all the places where the girl's bodies were found. Watson decided that the detective can perfectly manage on his own this time; and besides, Lestrade promised to bring in to Baker Street the autopsy report on the last victim, five-year-old Emily March (she was found just yesterday). The toxicology reports on previous victims were in the folder given them by Lestrade, and John decided to study them while Sherlock was busy chasing ghosts across London. For the doctor that seemed more effective than being a burden for his friend.

Being a doctor right now was the key words.

"…why? Allergic asphyxia. Angioedema. All victims are girls younger than nine years old. The cases are identical, aren't they?"

"No".

Sherlock sat in the armchair with his legs drawn up, swiftly typing something on his laptop.

"And?.."

"Hmm?" Sherlock replied vaguely, still engrossed in the process.

Sighing, John closed the folder on his lap.

"Care to explain your conclusion? Or you're expecting me to guess?"

Sherlock stopped assaulting the keyboard and, raising his head, looked at his friend.

"Why I should bother explaining obvious things?"

"Because they are not obvious to me."

"That's very unfortunate, isn't it?"

Sometimes Sherlock's vitriol and self-admiration were seriously getting on John's nerves. In those moments John could barely restrain himself from punching his flatmate in the face – just to wipe off this condescending smirk – and then telling him where to shove his genius. Instead of that John usually took a deep breath, counted to ten and, - when that didn't seemed to help, - retreated into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea (or something stronger).

The folder with case papers was immediately transferred from John's lap onto the coffee table.

"So you have everything under control, Sherlock."

"As always."

Rising from his armchair, John went into the kitchen.

If only he wasn't so emotionally invested in this case...

More than that, he was bloody personally involved!

And how couldn't he, if this was Greg's niece they were talking about?

"How long do you intend to hypnotise the kettle?" Sherlock's sarcastic voice interrupted the train of John's cheerless thoughts.

Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Holmes in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the doorframe and scrutinizing him. He was like an open book for the detective: lips pressed together into a thin line, a slight crease between his eyebrows, rapid breathing – the signs of anger were obvious. John, of course, would've denied it vigorously, but Sherlock could recognise wounded pride when he saw one (although John could've probably denied the fact of his own pride's presence, too).

"Sod off."

"Don't tell me you don't want to know what I found at the crime scenes."

Sherlock moved into the kitchen and perched on the high stool with his legs drawn up, suddenly reminding John of a grasshopper. A giant grasshopper with a smug grin.

"No."

"Oh, come on, John..."

"What part of 'sod off' you didn't understand?" mock-snarled Watson, trying to hide a grin of his own. "First you refuse to explain why there are four victims instead of five, and now you expect me to bombard you with questions about the crime scenes you've visited."

"Surely it's obvious? You haven't seen the crime scenes; therefore you are unaware of my findings. And you're curious, I'm sure of it."

"Oh, really?"

John turned away to pour water into the kettle, and finally allowed his lips to curl into a smile. Maybe he wasn't a master of deduction, but even he could clearly see that right now Sherlock Holmes was desperate to share his conclusions. In moments like this, for John his friend was like a child, dying to show off his discoveries.

Which made staying angry with him for long absolutely impossible.

"Lestrade's niece wasn't one of these murderer victims. The cause of her death is an allergic asphyxia, but this has nothing to do with our maniac's activity."

John almost dropped the mug he was in a process of getting from the cupboard.

"What? How?... Why do you think…"

"First of all, the age doesn't match. She is almost ten, which makes her older than other victims. And no chocolate was found during the autopsy…"

"But there were traces of Ceftriaxone in her blood."

"You are a doctor, John. Try to think above the obvious. It's not so hard," Sherlock opted for a dramatic sigh but, seeing his friend's expression, thought better of it. "She had cystitis."

"Cystitis?"

"Yes. The day she died – in the morning, to be exact – she, according to the prescribed treatment, was given the first injection of Ceftriaxone. It's ironic, but Amanda's mother is a nurse. So, instead of going to the clinic, she decided she can do the procedures on her own. She gave her daughter the first injection and went out to do some shopping. I assume you had the time to study the papers, and therefore you know the rest – the girl was found in the backyard when it was already too late."

"But what about an allergy test?" John was shocked. "They should've done it before prescribing the drug. The damn thing has a list of side effects longer than indications for use!"

Sherlock simply shrugged his shoulders in "Don't ask me" gesture.

Sighing, Watson turned the kettle on. They were both silent for a several moments – the detective was once again engrossed in his thoughts, and the doctor absentmindedly watched the bubbles rising from the bottom as the kettle began to boil.

His mind was empty.

"Why she was found in the backyard, Sherlock?" John asked quietly, breaking the silence. "Logically, she should've stayed at home and called 999."

"She was frightened, and tried to find her mother. You're thinking like an adult right now, John. She was only nine. And she was in perfect health, so her encounters with drugs were quite rare."

"Probably her mother hadn't suspected Amanda had allergy..."

"Yes, she said the same thing."

"She said?" John looked at him. "You spoke with her?"

"Have you forgotten I visited the crime scenes today?" the smile on the detective's lips hadn't reached his eyes. "Of course I spoke with Amanda's mother. And also with Amanda's doctor. I even saw her medical records. Regretfully, I haven't had the chance to steal it. But the records are totally confirming the autopsy report. Cystitis. Ceftriaxone. And not a single word about allergy."

The kettle boiled and switched off automatically. John reached for the mug, but then stopped, as if he was hit with a sudden revelation.

Sherlock frowned. He knew this look well enough to understand that it means trouble.

"We should tell Lestrade. Bloody hell, we need to call him immediately! It explains everything..." genuinely worried, John almost tripped over his words. "Amanda's doctor should be made answerable for this. It's a serious breach..."

"No."

"What? Why?"

"We are not going to do that. Lestrade's personal involvement can be very beneficial. It's an additional motivation for him to work harder…"

"He's already doing everything he can, Sherlock... You... you have no right!"

"John, I'm not interested in moral aspects of this discussion, and I'm not asking for your opinion. We are not going to tell Lestrade anything. Is that clear?"

The doctor looked at him vacantly, nodded. Sherlock watched as myriad emotions appeared on the doctor's face – one after another, from surprise to the total incomprehension bordering on horror. Finally, John blinked and looked away – and Sherlock clearly felt the transparent but impenetrable wall rising between them.

It was wrong. But he couldn't understand why it was happening.

The feeling of loneliness clawed at him, urging to do something – anything to break this damned wall and bring John back.

Sherlock cleared his throat.

"…Now, about the crime scenes. Well, about the places, where the girls bodies were found, to be exact…"

"I don't care."

"Say that again?"

"I. Don't. Care. Sherlock."

Just like that.

Quietly. Calmly. No trace of emotion on his face. Except maybe his fists were clenched so hard the knuckles went white.

And then the doctor spun on his heels and left the kitchen, measuring out his pace. A minute later the front door was slammed shut.


	3. Chapter 3

John Watson's ardour lasted precisely for an hour.

He spent that hour traversing several blocks towards the Blandford Street until he finally came across the supermarket. His grudge against his heartless flatmate gave way to the thoughts about the contents of their fridge – or a total absence of those, to be exact. Well, the edible was terribly outnumbered, anyway. And that, in turn, lead to John remembering Sherlock not having breakfast – apart from a cup of coffee, but that didn't count – and, more than that, not eating since yesterday.

"…and what have you gotten yourself into, John Watson?" the doctor sighed, pushing the door of a supermarket open and already making a list of everything he needed to buy.

It was hell of a lot easier than dealing with the situation at home.

Of course, Sherlock's decision was entirely logical – Lestrade's personal involvement could come very handy in this investigation. When things get personal, people often willing to take a risk, and they are usually not so uptight about giving out some information they normally prefer to keep in secret. For example, right now John was ready to move heaven and earth to help Sherlock solve this case and catch the murderer. And not even because of the fact of innocent children dying – although it was important, even paramount.

But still, it wasn't the main reason.

The main reason was the thought about Greg Lestrade's niece, which for John equalled the idiomatic red rag for a bull.

Well, it was so until Sherlock managed to refute the speculation about Amanda being one of the victims.

Damn it!

Well, truth to be told, Amanda's predicament was no less tragic. Her pediatrician's negligence and her mother's self-assured carelessness led to a dismal end, which probably could've been avoided – in contrast to the other victims, who had no chance from the beginning.

John sighed, readjusting his grip on a grocery bag.

The best he could do now is help Sherlock solve this case. Preferrably without letting the detective know that his opinion is understood, accepted and agreed with – to some extent.

Because letting him know meant seeing that smug grin of a man convinced of his impeccability once again.

Not happening. Not if John had a say in the matter.

Their flat greeted him with loud emotional outbursts coming from above. That came as a total surprise for the doctor – considering that he knew Sherlock usually avoided raising his voice.

Mrs Hudson emerged from her flat the second he arrived, her straned smile clearly betraying her concern.

"John, dear, what happened? Why are they making so much noise?"

"No idea, Mrs Hudson. I've just came in," Watson shrugged off his coat and hung it on a hook. "Who's with him?"

"Inspector Lestrade. Haven't you seen his car?"

"I… did't notice. Had a lot to think about, to tell the truth."

John strained his ears. The door upstairs was closed, so all he could hear was an indistinct rumble of voices. One thing was clear, though – Sherlock's voice stayed calm as ever.

In contrary to Greg, who clearly wasn't stinting his emotions.

It looked like The Only One in the World bloody Consulting Detective was intent on quarrelling with all his friends today. Typical.

"Don't worry, Mrs Hudson, I'll take care of this," John gave their landlady a reassuring smile and, picking up the grocery bag, swiftly walked up the stairs.

But right in front of the door he paused, taking a deep breath. 'Please, God, give me strength…'

"…John! Here you are," Sherlock was trying to sound nonchalant. "Oh, we're not going to starve to death, as I see. Wonderful."

He quickly scanned John's face, taking notice of each and every detail. To his immense relief, there was no sighs of the quarrel they had a few hours ago. But the wall was still there, although seemed not to be as impenetrable and solid as earlier, and John remained somewhat distant.

"Hello, John," the DI nodded to the doctor, but from the look on his face it seemed John's arrival was ill-timed.

"Hello. What…"

"Am I right in assuming you aware that Amanda died because of medical negligence and inexcusable stupidity of her mother?" Greg interrupted, scrutinizing Watson.

John swallowed, aware of Sherlock's gaze joining the examination.

Damn, if only he could guess what was going on in his genius flatmate's head! What was he supposed to say? There was no point in lying – it would've been more harm then good. Besides, John hated lies, and was practically uncapable of telling them.

If only he knew what happened here in his absence! How much information Holmes revealed… or chose not to reveal? What was the sourse of Lestrade's information about the cause of his niece's death?

"John knows nothing about that. I haven't shared my conclusions with him," Sherlock looked absolutely calm and relaxed.

Damn, he was really good at playing mind games, John thought with admiration.

But what the hell is this bloody genius doing?

Is he trying to make amends this way? Trying to say he's sorry?

"What? No..," Watson shook his head. "No… Greg, don't listen to him. I knew. Basically, we were… um… we were arguing about that…"

"About what?" Lestrade stepped closer to the doctor, forcing him to tip his head back in order to maintain the eye contact.

"About… about telling you right away versus cheching the credibility of information."

"There can be no mistake! Sherlock is always right," the DI spoke with agitation. "Do you take me for a fool, John?"

"Oy… thanks, Inspector. It's good to know you can aknowledge obvious things. But let's get back to our conversation. Try to put aside your emotion and tell me how your knowledge of this particular information could've helped the investigation?"

Lestrade clearly was about to throw another tantrum, but, suddenly changing his mind, exhaled and sat down on the sofa, looking defeated and miserable.

"You're right. It wouldn't. But at least you could've told me that earlier."

"Why?" Sherlock's surprise was genuine.

"Just to keep me in the loop, Sherlock."

The storm has passed, and John risked using his favourite way of settling things.

"Tea, anyone?"

* * *

It was only later that John found out Scotland Yard turned to be not as useless as Sherlock usually presumed them to be.

He also found out that Lestrade came to Sherlock to personally inform the detective about the incident which really happened with his niece Amanda. And that Sherlock, upon hearing the DI's slightly incoherent and emotional explanation, indifferently informed him that he knew about that from the beginning – it was obvious, and the police was, as always, out of their depth.

Which led the good doctor to understanding of the presence of a colourful bruise on his flatmate's cheekbone.

Sherlock winced, hissing through his clenched teeth.

"If you bother to sit still, it would speed the process."

"It's just a scratch. Irrelevant. No reason to fuss over me, John."

"Of course. But considering that I'm a doctor, and you are an idiot, you will shut up and sit still while I finish with this."

Sherlock's eyebrows made a dramatic leap towards his hairline.

He tried turning his head in order to look at Watson who was bisy working on aforementioned scratch, but right at that moment the doctor, fed up with interference, grabbed his chin quite firmly.

John's hand was warm and surprisingly strong – Holmes tried to free his head by a couple of brusque jerks, but the doctor's fingers were holding him steadily, so after fruitless attempts he gave up. John was a field surgeon, after all, capable to treat a bullet wound in critical conditions – Sherlock simply had no chance against him.

"Here," John finished his ministrations and stuck a couple of band-aids on Sherlock's face. "Finished."

"It was unnecessary."

"Yes. But now it's going to heag much faster," the doctor remarked, putting away his first-aid kit. "Frankly, I would love to put a tape over your mouth."

Sherlock huffed in irritation and shot him a withering glare.

John Watson was smiling.

The damned wall was gone.

For a few moments, they were simply looking at each other…

…and then simultaneously burst out laughing, they warm, cheerful laugh virtually flooding up the room.

"What was Lestrade here about?" asked John, finally calming down. "Because I doubt he came here solely to punch you in the face."

"You right, there were other reasons," Sherlock touched his swollen cheekbone with his fingertips and whinced. "He has a nice right hook, by the way…"

"I've noticed," John chuckled, putting the first-air kit in the kitchen cupboard. "Anything else? Apart from Amanda, I mean."

"Yes, but not much. The police are convinced it's the work of allergist – basing on the specific method of the murderer, of course. They checked the specialicts which were treating three of four victims – no results so far. The girls lived in different parts of town, were visiting different clinics, and therefore had different allergists. And the last victim, Emily March, never visited an allergist in her life…"

While he was in the supermarket earlier, John bought a fillet of veal and now decided to busy himself with the preparation of their dinner; it would've hardly interfere with their conversation, and besides, Sherlock even liked watching as John cooked.

The doctor became aware of that fact two weeks ago, when, during the one of discussions, the detective suddenly stopped speaking and watched the movements of John's hands, which were peeling the potatoes.

It was amusing, and John even allowed himself to chuckle mentally. His genius flatmate cearly wasn't averse to liking some of his traits, after all…

"But the cause of her death was the same – asphyxiation as a result of angioedema," John paused for a moment, holding the cutting board in his hands and trying to recall the details from the autopsy report. "And there was a chocolate found in her stomach."

"Yes. And that allowes us to exclude from the circle of suspects the people who have access to common medical information; but that doesn't mean our murderer has nothing to do with allergiology. By the way, Emily March had an allergy to the very specific exotical fruit – carambola," Sherlock perched up on the high stool, his eyes riveted to the knife with which John was cutting the meat to a small pieces. "It could be easily bought in the supermarket, or in a specialised shop. But Emily didn't eat the carambola, and the autopsy report confirms that. Such fruits are not recommended to small children because of the allergy risk – it's too dangerous."

John looked at Sherlock. The detective was absentmindedly rolling a small round potato on the table.

"Do you have any idea how the killer does that?"

"By injecting a dose of a highly concentrated allergen into the sweets, John. It explains the presence of the chocolate in the stomachs of all four victims. Except for Laura Blacksmith, of caurse. It was the first victim, and the murder was quite simple – the murderer just gave her the chocolates. But it was too easy and boring, so in future our killer started preparing more thoroughly, searching for the rare allergens. I think in this case the preparation of the murder is more pleasureable than the murder itself."

"But allergens don't always cause a reaction such as angioedema, Sherlock. This reaction is quite rare, in fact; usually allergy results in rhinitis, allergic conjunctivitis or appearances of skin rash. Or the person can die from the anaphylactic shock," John put the frying pan on the stove and lit up the burner underneath. "And anyway, lethal outcome is possible only when the reaction to the allergen is instant."

"Which gives us the first clue, John. We need to check all visits to the hospitals connected to allergic reactions since the first murder. And our murdered was keen on lethal outcomes, ensuring that with the concentration of the allergen in the chocolates."

Sherlock swiftly turned round on the stool, so now he was facing the stove. John just poured the oil into the pan, and now began putting there the pieces of meat which immediately started to sizzle.

Mrs Hudson chose that exact moment to peep into the kitchen. She was still a bit worried after Lestrade's visit – he was too loud with her strange tenant; but the scene she saw caused a smile to appear on the landlady's face. Sherlock was enthusiastically explaning something to his flatmate, at the same time craning his neck to peek into the frying pan. And John, occasionally putting in his comments, fiddled with the pan, adding several ingredients into their soon-to-be dinner.

"…and besides, we're clearly dealing with the person who has unrestricted access to a clinical laboratory – like the one in Bart's, for example. And this person has suitable skills. That's our second clue."

**Note from the translator: sorry for the long wait :( The thing is, I have my own stories here, that are demanding my attention, so I'm alternating between writing and translating. Next chapter shoul be up in a couple of weeks. Stay tuned! :)**


	4. Chapter 4

As if mocking John's words, the next victim died of anaphylactic shock. Five-year-old Leola Arton was found in girl's locker room in Warwick school. The girl was carefully laid out on a low bench and covered with her own pink raincoat with flower print.

There were no doubts the murderer was the same.

Chocolate.

A little victim's hand was closed around a chocolate.

A Consulting Genius was happy to the point of indecency. A few times John was even forced to pinch Holmes' arm to stop him from grinning. Especially when they'd arrived at the crime scene, where Sherlock's smile was totally inappropriate. Scotland Yard was interested in any kind of information, therefore Lestrade patiently endured the insufferable genius; but even he flinched at the moments when the detective's face lit up with a thriumphant smile again and again.

"Are you going to tell us anything, or you just planning to continue shocking everybody?"

"You know perfectly well I don't care what the other people think," Sherlock hemmed. "You all free to call me a psychopat and gossip behind my back, if you like. But bear in mind that you're wasting the time you could've otherwise spent searching for criminals and catching them."

"Fine. Let's get back to the crime scene. Please."

A cutting retort was already at the tip of Sherlock's tongue, but John's reproachful stare stopped him short.

Five minutes later he began to talk – on the substance of the case only.

"You seem to be exceptionally quick-witted today, Lestrade. Must be the absence of Anderson… Doesn't matter, anyway. This time it's definitely a crime scene – the victim was killed right here, unlike the previous four ones.

"How did you…"

"Shut up," Sherlock waved his hand in irritation. "I'm not going to explain obvious things; only my idiotic flatmate is entitled to that privilege."

John harrumphed.

Was it praise or an insult – that clearly remained to be seen.

"… as I already mentioned, the murder transpired right here. Our maniac is starting to enjoy himself, and is obviously not afraid of anything – the style, as we can see, is changed. The killer even deemed necessary to leave one of the chocolates in the victim's hand. And the victim looks like a Chrismas present, all that's missing is a bow tied around the body."

"Sherlock!"

"… this time the murderer picked his victim more thorough. The girl had astma – a presence of the cap from inhaler in her school bag confirms that. Astma plus a strong allergy – the death is imminent. But it's a private school, so the murderer must've gained information about Leola's illness from her medical records. It required a visit to the school, and there's a chance somebody seen and maybe even can recognise our suspect. That's a serious risk. The murderer is toying with us – here I am, catch me! Previously the main desire was to kill, but now it transformed into seeking excitement and thrill. Which obviously brought along the firm belief of omnipotence and personal immunity…"

Holmes was grinning. He gestured with his hands, his pupils were dilated, his breathing quickened. To John's dismay, he looked dangerously similar to the maniac he was so enthusiasticly describing. And if for John Watson that was obvious, than for Yarders it must've been a very repulsive sight.

A bit no good.

Definitely a bit no good, because that wasn't the whole picture.

Sherlock was so much more than this.

"…and that's the main mistake. Oh, they all make mistakes, when they feel themselves at the top of the world.  
"

"So what do you want us to do – wait while the murdeder makes a mistake?" Lestrade interrupted, frowning. "Wait for the death of the next victim?"

"You are not listening, Detective Inspector," Sherlock replied with irritation, carefully pulling the chocolate from the dead girl's hand. "The murderer already made a mistake."

"And? Are you planning to continue speaking in sharades? What mistake? What should we do?"

"You need to speak with the director, question teachers and students – anyone who could've noticed anything or anyone. Anyone who shouldn't be here or, on the contrary, appeared nor long ago."

"Okay," the DI made some notes. "Anything else?"

"All the girls were studying somewhere – be that a private school, like in this case with Leola Arton, or a primary school, like Emily March. So the killer must've had a plausible excuse to get to them, I'm sure of that. Look for a doctor, a pharmacist, a nurse…"

"A nurse?" Lestrade asked, looking up from his notebook. "Are you saying our murderer could be a woman?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying, Lestrade," the detective grumbled in reply.

Sherlock was obviously eager to leave the crime scene. He typed a message, from time to time stealing glances at the evidence bag with the chocolate. Poor Molly was again destined to miss her lunch – Holmes was definitely planning to go to Bart's and occupy a laboratory.

"But how, Sherlock?" John decided to save the DI from the lecture about his incompetence. "Care to explain?"

Sherlock shot a quick glance at his friend's face.

Watson struggled to appear genuinely interested.

But there was a hint of a smile in his eyes – that warm, special smile Sherlock could never comprehend.

Why were John's eyes smiling?

And why Sherlock was thinking about that right now?

Sherlock carded his fingers through his hair and sighed. He should definitely remind John later that such behaviour at the crime scene was a bit inappropriate.

But why wasn't he irritated by this at all?

"Sherlock…"

"It's quite simple, Inspector," Holmes lanched into his explanation at breakneck speed, as if his words were trying to keep up with his thoughts. "Although it may not be so obvious for your little brain. If your so-called specialists weren't acting like a bunch of brainless idiots at the crime scene, you should've realised that from the beginning…"

The detective crouched down, nodding for John and Lestrade to join him.

Watson readily mirrored his position, and a moment later the DI reluctantly followed suit.

"So?" there was a note of impatience in Lestrade's voice. "What do you want us to see?"

"Everything you failed to see before."

John looked closely at the tiled locker room floor. Dark brown tiles, without any pattern. Nothing special. The floor was washed recently – the whitish traces were now evident.

The thing is, sometimes you just need to look closely enough to see something important.

"Wait a minute. Is that… is that footprints?"

"Exactly, John," Sherlock's voice was full of triumph. "Footprints. Woman's footptints, to be exact."

"I see two sets of footprints here," Lestrade remarked, scrutinizing the floor. "One of them definitely belongs to a child."

The DI turned to look at the girl's body on the bench. He carefully raised the raincoat and looked at the soles of her boots.

"Those footprints are Leola Arton and her murderer's, Lestrade. There's no doubt about it."

"Why do you…"

"Just take a good look, Inspector. The floor was washed not long before the murder. It was still damp when the girl walked in here – that's why the footprints are so clearly seen. Our murderer was in Kéddo shoes without heels, well-worn judging by the soles, but relatively new – the pattern on the soles confirms that. So the murderer tries to keep up with fashion and prefers youth footwear. Now let's get back to the girl. Our murdered was leading her by the hand – the pattern of footprints confirms that. And Leola wasn't resisting – on the contrary, she was even pressing close to the woman. Then the murderer sits the girl down on the bench and joins her…"

"What's that?" John pointed his finger at the small white blots.

Sherlock's lips curved into a satisfied smile. "Bravo, John. Those are tears. Leola was crying, and the woman was trying to soothe her. After that she must've offered the girl chocolates."

"But why did she trust that woman so easily?" Lestrade enquired.

"I have a couple of ideas," Sherlock rose to his feet. "The woman may have intridused herself as a friend of the girl's parents. Children of this age tend to believe people. The girl wanted to share her secrets with somebody – that's not unusual whem you live in a private school and see your family only once in a month."

Sherlock's voice became strangely hoarse all of a sudden. Holmes cleared his throat incomfortably and fell silent, turning away to look out of the window.

John frowned. There was something strange in Sherlock's pose. Something important.

What were you trying to hide, Sherlock?

"And the second? You said you have a couple of ideas," Lestrade rose from the floor, putting his notebook in his raincoat's pocket. "What's the second idea?"

"A kind and tender female doctor. It's easy to trust someone who wears a white labcoat and shows you sympathy," the detective turned his head a little, watching John out of the corner of his eye. "Howewer… sometimes even a labcoat is unnecessary."

John's fists were clenched so hard, his knuckles went white; lips pressed together into a thin line, and there was a deep crease between his eyebrows.

That's how Doctor John Watson's anger looked like.

"You're not taking too kindly to this piece of information, I see," there was a hint of interest in Sherlock's voice, and… a sympathy? "Curb your emotions, John. I need your expertise on this case."

John raises his head and locks his gaze with Sherlock's. There's a shadow of pain in John's dark-grey eyes – Sherlock's positive he saw it.

Or maybe it's just a flicker of light, reflected in his friend's eyes?

The doctor nods and Holmes feels somehow satisfied with this silent answer.

"Sherlock, you still didn't explain why you think those footprints belong to the murderer. What about the school personal – a charlady, or even a teacher?"

"No. It's our killer's footprints – and nobody else's," the detective crouched down again fishing a small tape measure out of his coat pocket. "Look closely. This woman's foot is approximately nine and a half inches, she has small feet, she probably wears size four. She is petite, skinny, and not tall."

"So what?" the DI tilted his head, his expression clearly doubtful. "There are hundreds of female persons in London that are fitting your description. Children, girls, women. Why are you sure our murderer…"

"You, as always, failed to hear me to the end, Lestrade. I had found the footprints at the previous crime scenes. The footwear was differen, but the size never changed. Our killer is an astute psychologist. She was searching for individual approach for every victim; it was important for her that the child trusted her."

"Wait, Sherlock. Are you trying to say she befriended those girls before killing them?"

"Ah, John, you're making progress," Sherlock grinned, but there was a spark of something akin to pride in his gaze. "Yes, she had definitely communicated with each of her victims previously. So we need to question all possible witnesses in those schools where the girls were studying. By the way, Lestrade, had your people checked the clinics on a subject of visits about allergy since the first murder? As I recall, I asked you about it yesterday."

"They are working on it, Sherlock," the DI retorted with irritation. "Our resources are not infinite. We have another ongoing investigations, I need to remind you. If you deign to come to Scotland Yard this evening, you can have all the information."

"And the autopsy report?" the detective nodded towards the body on the bench.

"Of course."

"Excellent."


	5. Chapter 5

**I sincerely apologise for the long wait :( Here's the new chapter.  
**

_"…Mum, can I have a chocolate?"_

_"No."_

_"But why? Liv is going to eat all the chocolates again! Why I can't have one?"_

_"Liv can eat chocolate. But the doctor forbade it to you. Don't you remember what happened the last time? You want to be in the hospital again?"_

_"No, I don't. But it wasn't because of the chocolates; I didn't eat them the last time!"_

_"Don't lie to me. I know it's not true. Your doctor told me it happened because of the chocolate."_

_"But mum…"_

_"I said, 'No'. This conversation is over."_

* * *

Sherlock left the crime scene so quickly that John only saw as the flaps of his coat disappeared into the corridor. He had that damned chocolate in his disposal now, and clearly was on his way to Bart's now to do some test in the laboratory.

Poor Molly Hooper!

Watson told Lestrade that they'd see him in the evening and left the locker room, heading straight to the director's office.

At first glance, Marina Finch didn't look older than 35. A slight wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and a few silver strands in her hair betrayed – or, rather, hinted slightly, - about her real age. She wasn't tall, but she had a warm smile and was in a good shape. 'Just my type', John thought automatically, and right after that felt a surge of annoyance at Holmes' sagacity. On the one hand, the good doctor refused to believe he was like an open book for the detective. But on the other hand…

Yes, he certainly was flattered.

Besides, it was Sherlock's idea for John to talk with Marina Finch. And now, looking at the unnaturally smiling woman and seeing anxiety in her gaze, Watson was beginning to understand why Holmes sent him here.

"…you probably aware about the hysteria about the diabetes, Doctor?"

"Yes, I think I know what are you talking about, Mrs Finch."

"Actually, it's 'Miss'," the woman's smile was almost shy. "And please, call me Marina."

Right at that moment John finally noticed the absence of the ring on Marina's ring finger.

'Damn you, Sherlock Holmes!'

"I'm sorry, Miss…um… Marina," Watson flashed at her his best friendly smile. "You were saying something about the diabetes?"

The woman sighed heavily and looked away – this conversation for her definitely wasn't a pleasant experience. Right at this moment, Miss Finch was worried about her school's reputation, and even a hundred friendly smiling men were probably unable to draw her attention. Even if they were as handsome as Doctor John Watson.

"About a week and a half ago, there was a direction from the Department of Health. In order to control the level of glucose in children's and youngsters' blood and therefore prevent the possibility of diabetes developing, all our students were required to do blood tests. Which showed, by the way…"

There was a thought lurking in the depths of John's mind, something very important. The effect of Marina's words was as if she turned on the fire alarm in the school's building – they had the doctor on alert instantly.

"Wait a moment," John blinked a couple of times, then sighed heavily. "Somebody from the Department of Health came into your school and did blood tests?"

"Yes."

"On all students?"

"Exactly."

"Do you know who it was?"

"Doctor Amalia Sweet. Do you know her? Do you have any suspicions?"

"To tell the truth, this is the first time I hear her name," John waved his hand impatiently. "But I'm sure it's not real. Sounds like a sick joke, actually. Do you remember what she looked like? Can you describe her?"

"Well… what can the doctor look like? White uniform, warm, engaging smile, amiable tone of the voice," Miss Finch smiled sadly. "That's all I can remember, I'm afraid. I have a lot of work, you know. And… how could I have known? She was just a doctor."

John winced.

"Sorry, Mister Watson."

"You can call me John," Watson decided to play by Marina's rules. "White uniform, you said. Well, that's a perfect disguise. People tend to notice what others wear, not what they look like. I'm certain that if Miss Sweet decided to come to the school now in her casual clothes, you probably won't recognise her."

Marina pursed her lips, visibly hurt.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you," John flashed at her his most amiable smile. "I have no doubt in your power of observation. Can you remember anything else? Anything special? There should be something…"

The woman looked thoughtful for a moment. Her gaze was glued to the table, as if she tried to see something – something she was trying to remember.

"She wasn't tall," Marina said finally, still refusing to meet Doctor Watson's eyes. "Small, petite, like a statuette."

John nodded slowly, as if agreeing with his own thoughts.

That was another confirmation of Holmes' theory.

"She… this Amalia Sweet, did she have an access to your students' medical files?"

"Yes. Yes, of course. When the results of tests were ready, she brought them here herself. After that she and our nurse made necessary notes in medical files. According to the results, some students had a critical level of glucose in their blood. Amalia brought back recommendation about restrictions in those student's rations."

"When did that happen?"

"Yesterday evening. She came quite late, and then she and Mrs Dawson, our nurse, worked almost till midnight. And… Oh my God..," Miss Finch faltered and covered her mouth with her hand.

"What? What's the matter?" John leaned forward, holding Marina's frightened gaze. "Have you managed to remember something?"

"Miranda… I mean, Mrs Dawson told me she left the school just after midnight. The thing is, she's usually has the night shifts and then the other nurse relieves her. But yesterday Miranda asked for permission to leave because her daughter got sick. Doctor Sweet stayed to work with the medical files. She said she wanted to finish her work so she won't need to return to Warwick School anymore."

"And of course nobody saw her leaving the building?"

"Somebody from the security could have seen her. Today was the parent's day; a lot of people came into the school in the morning, I had more pressing matters to take care of… especially when Leola was found."

John shook his head. With the missing fragments being added, the whole picture gradually became clear and complete.

"I don't thing think the security saw Doctor Sweet leaving."

"Why?"

"Because she hasn't left the building till morning, not until the parents started to arrive. During that bustle she managed to leave unnoticed – she just changed out of her uniform," Watson got to his feet. "Thank you, Marina. You've really helped our investigation, I'm grateful for that. I think Inspector Lestrade would want to talk to your nurse, Mrs Dawson. It would be great if you warn her about that."

Marina Finch nodded, watching in confusion as the doctor made his way to the door.

On the threshold he abruptly turned around.

"Oh, and the last question. You said that there was the direction from the Department of Health. In what form it was?"

"They sent the fax…"

"The fax?" John hadn't even tried to hide his surprise. "They sent the fax? And you didn't even bother to check its authenticity?.."

* * *

The spring sun was so warm that Watson decided to go for a brief walk. There wasn't any news from Sherlock yet, so there was no need to hurry anywhere.

John pulled his phone out of his coat's pocket – just to make sure he didn't miss Holmes' messages. Not that they were easy to miss – on those occasions when Watson didn't respond after Sherlock's message, or hadn't call back, the detective immediately proceeded to bombard the doctor's phone with various messages.

Those messages, however, had a simple meaning.

"I need you."

And that, probably, was the most amazing thing in the whole situation.

John smiled to his thoughts, squinting from the bright sunlight, and looked at the phone he was holding in his hand.

Definitely no messages.

He dialled Lestrade's number and briefly stated to him the main points of his conversation with Marina Finch. The DI was terse, thanked Watson for the information and expressed his wish to speak with Miranda Dawson (as John had expected from the beginning). The nurse would probably be able to give some important information – in the end, she spent a few hours working in the same room with Doctor Sweet.

His stomach gave a loud rumble.

Watson remembered he hadn't had anything since morning; or, to be precise, since the moment he and Sherlock arrived at the crime scene. The detective literally pulled him out of his bed, and all John had managed is to drink a glass of milk with the half of a chocolate biscuit.

The other half he finished while Sherlock was flagging down a cab.

"Well, then," the doctor murmured, looking around. "I think I can use the opportunity and have a quick snack."

He found a suitable café two blocks from the school. There was a nice music playing inside – he could hear it out of the open door. There also was a clatter of dishes – somebody was finishing his lunch, clanking his fork against a plate. This sound alone forced John's mouth to water.

And when the doctor was hit with a smell of the freshly baked goods, he almost lost his mind.

John checked his phone once more before placing the order – Sherlock had a habit of summoning him in the most inappropriate moments. But there were no new messages and no missed calls, so Watson allowed himself to finally relax.

A tasteful lunch and a hot coffee were waiting for him.

Wait a minute.

Relax?

John frowned. A half-full plate of seafood salad suddenly lost all its appeal.

There was a feeling of uneasiness unfurling inside: claiming his body, sending a cold shiver down his spine and forcing his hands to curl into fists.

He abruptly realised – with a perfect clarity – that being separated from Sherlock is… wrong.

Wrong.

And, of course, to feel relief was absolutely unacceptable. Just because when Holmes was out there somewhere, and John was here, he couldn't tell with certainty his friend is safe and sound. He couldn't take care of him, protect him, and even save him if it would be necessary.

The doctor could almost hear Sherlock's snort upon hearing that he needed to be saved from anything.

"… are you going to order anything else?" the waitress' friendly tone pulled John back from his thoughts.

"Yes," Watson scanned the menu. "I would like your chocolate doughnuts, please, four of them. Or… five. No, make it six. And one coffee. Black. I'm taking all that with me."

"Would you like some sugar?"

"Two, please."

Holmes could smirk all he wanted – the doctor knew that he, John Watson, was destined to save the detective at least once a day. From the death of starvation. Another couple of times he certainly was going to be saving Sherlock from himself. And finally, countless times he was expected to be inventive enough to save other people from Sherlock's insults.

Right at the moment John received his order and paid for it, his mobile phone came back to life, announcing the arrival of a new message.

"You're finished your lunch. I'm waiting for you in Barts."

Just like that. This was Holmes in his finest. Never cared to ask where his flatmate is and if he's busy – he seemed to already know everything.

Watson grinned and was about to put the phone back in his coat's pocket, when the mobile buzzed again, showing another message.

"Hurry up. I don't want my coffee to get cold."

Sherlock REALLY knew everything.

Turned out the detective was right when he asked John to hurry. Because the doctor was definitely having no luck with cabs at the moment.

Firstly, he couldn't get one – four of them just passed him without stopping. None of the drivers seemed to look at frantically waving Watson. How he managed not to spill Sherlock's coffee while doing that was a complete mystery.

But when he finally flagged down a cab and practically fell on the seat with relief, the car was caught in a traffic jam as soon as it turned the corner.

Watson tried to ignore his constantly buzzing phone – he was aware about being late without the annoying reminders. He lost count of them somewhere around twelfth, but anyway, he was surely going to hear the detective's opinion about his level of intellect as soon as he'd arrived at his designation. And while Sherlock would never repeat his words – he was too clever and impatient for that – John certainly wasn't looking for a doubtful pleasure of being humiliated twice.

Fifty minutes passed, and he still wasn't getting anywhere.

If, against all odds, Sherlock was still waiting for him, he probably already was in a state when the only wish is to tear everything apart, and John Watson undoubtedly at the top of the list.

But… Maybe Holmes had already left? Sherlock's patience had limits, and besides, today he definitely was in a hurry.

John hemmed.

That's probably was the best scenario at the moment. If Holmes really left, all John had to do is go into the lab, give doughnuts to Molly – Sherlock, for sure, had ignored the poor girl, - and after that depart to Scotland Yard.

This time – on the tube.

Finally the taxi stopped near Barts. Watson was already reaching for his wallet when the door on the opposite side of the car opened and Sherlock slid into the seat beside him, looking absolutely nonchalant.

"Scotland Yard, please."

After that everything was as if John had seen it from an outsider's view.

Holmes calmly took the takeaway bag from his hands, fished out the cold coffee and doughnuts – and started to eat silently, from time to time dropping crumbs on his expensive coat.

"I think you could brief me about everything you found out while talking with the director of the Warwick School, while I'm eating," the detective said finally, taking another doughnut from the bag.

And John started to speak: without unnecessary details and emotions, everything strict and to the point – exactly as Sherlock prefers. Holmes added his witty comments from time to time, but not too often – he tended not to speak with his mouth full. But for John it all feels a bit strange – just because he didn't expect such understanding from the detective after being so ridiculously late.

After finishing his coffee Holmes pushes the last doughnut into John's hand and turns to the window, wiping his fingers with the napkin.

"I… Thank you, Sherlock," John sighed in embarrassment, trying to guess what his friend was thinking about. "Why are you…"

"The traffic doesn't depend on you, John."

"But…"

"I know you've done all you could."

"You could leave without me."

"What for?" Sherlock sighed and turned to look at John. "We had plenty of time before our meeting with Lestrade, and it was hardly any trouble to wait for you…"

"And…"

"…besides, I knew you were bringing me coffee and something to eat."

"Everything has gotten cold," Watson cringed in annoyance, and it caused Holmes to smile, while a pleasant warm feeling spread out in his chest. "There's not much fun in a cold coffee."

"Doesn't matter," the detective shrugged his shoulders and turned to the window once again. "You bought it for me."

They spend the rest of the way in silence.

Sherlock needed time to think and systematise new information. And John… John just leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. After his tiring journey through London traffic jams entailed with anxiety about being late, after Sherlock's unexpected but pleasant attitude towards him, it was really great just to relax and not to think about anything.

And also it was great to be silent together…

* * *

Lestrade jumped to his feet as soon as Holmes and Watson stepped into his office.

"Do you have new information?"

"You're first. Have you managed to find anything?"

The DI nodded towards an impressive stack of papers, balanced precariously on the edge of his desk. Sherlock swiftly tugged his gloves off and grabbed the first folder from the top of the stack.

But he didn't open it, choosing to pass it to Watson instead.

"John."

The doctor took the folder out of Holmes' hands right when the detective opened his fingers, letting it go. This was an autopsy report on Leola Arton.

"Okay, Sherlock. I'm already looking."

Spotting a nearest chair, Watson sat down and started to peruse the report.

The detective, however, was more interested in the other papers on the DI's desk. Specifically – in the extracts from the medical files. There were about fifty and Sherlock scanned them quickly, giving each one less than three seconds.

"You were right, by the way," Lestrade reclaimed his seat. "Since these killings started, statistic showed the increase of visits to allergists almost twofold. Children, mainly."

"She chose the right time," John said absent-mindedly, not raising his head.

"What? What is he talking about?" the DI looked at the positively beaming detective in confusion. "Why it's the right time?"

"Spring exacerbation, Lestrade," the doctor raised his head a bit unwillingly. "Everything's blooming. The pollen from flowers. Insects. Insects' bites sometimes cause a very strong allergy reaction. And with children, as in our case, the sensitivity to allergens is often higher than average. In spring allergists have significant increase of patient's visits. Our killer is well aware of that. More than that, I think she makes a good use of this fact."

The detective nodded, agreeing mentally with each word.

The corners of John's lips twitched upwards when he noticed Sherlock's pleased look.

The pieces of the puzzle were starting to fall into places, and that was the moment Holmes always loved the best.

John saw Sherlock's satisfaction.

Sherlock knew John was sure the reasons of his smile were the new details in the investigation.

But John didn't know Sherlock, in fact, was proud of him and his help.

… and those were the reasons Sherlock wanted to smile more.

"The statistics, however, is within the norm for the season," Lestrade sighed and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I don't think anyone would pay attention to the specific cases of allergy if they weren't life-threatening. The medics already have enough on their plates…"

"Yes. They prescribed the antihistamines to eliminate symptoms," Holmes tapped his index finger against the stack of extracts from medical files. "And recommended to do more test to find the allergen. The chocolate is mentioned as allergen in isolated cases."

"That's normal, I think," John set the folder aside and walked to the table to look at the papers. "In the end, our murderer… she hadn't poison those children in packs?... Gosh, what I'm thinking about? Why it has to be normal?"

He rubbed his face with his hands and looked at Lestrade guiltily.

"You're right," Sherlock cut in quickly, not allowing Watson to suffer the remorse. "Our killer is very thorough. I'm sure she tries to ensure each victim's death. And I'm also sure we're done with this. It's a false lead."

"What do you mean, 'a false lead'?" the DI said with indignation. "Then why we were following it?"

"To check a hypothesis, Lestrade. All our victims are girls younger than six years old, sometimes even less. Children this age are incapable to describe the killer, let alone remember the fact they were given chocolates. And of course a child will never connect the fact of illness with that. That's why I don't think we should take the notes about possible allergy to chocolate into consideration – those patients are not the victims of our killer. But you can question their parents, just in case."

"Sherlock! What hypothesis are you talking about?" Lestrade rose to his feet and stared at the detective. "We wasted two days doing this work, and now you're saying it's a false lead?"

"I had to make sure our killer is really smart," Holmes' eyes flashed with content and he waved his hand, cutting the DI's protests off. "Oh, come on, inspector, you won't catch her without me. John, what about the autopsy report? Anything interesting?"

"Huh?" Doctor Watson, engrossed in study of a medical file, was oblivious to two intent stares fixed on him. "Have you asked something, Sherlock? Sorry, I was just a little…"

"Anything interesting in Leola's autopsy report?" the detective repeated impatiently.

"No, not really..," John raised his head at last. "Cause of death is an anaphylactic shock. Instant reaction on the allergen, larynx edema, respiratory obstruction – the girl had asthma, as you remember, - loss of consciousness and death. There was chocolate in her stomach. Here is the extract from Leola's medical file. She had a strong allergy to penicillin-based antibiotics."

"I bet there's a high concentration of penicillin in her blood?" Sherlock enquired.

"Yes… you're right..," John said slowly and fell silent.

The detective looked at him in agitation – and his countenance changed the same second. Watson was frowning and gnawing at his lower lip, as if trying to remember something. There was the page with the extract from the medical file in his hands, and the doctor scanned it with his eyes over and over.

"John, is everything alright?"

"I… what? Yes. Yes, everything's fine, Sherlock," Watson put the paper aside and looked at Lestrade. "Greg, do you have photos from the last crime scene?"

"Yes. But what…"

"Just pass them over, Lestrade," Holmes' gaze was fixed on his friend's face, which showed an impatient expression and something alike…

Triumph?..

A few seconds later there's a bunch of photos in John's hands. Some of them he immediately puts aside – for example, the ones with Leola's body or the killer's footprints. The others he studies closely, bringing them closer to his eyes and almost touching the glossy paper with his nose. The detective mentally urged him on, but kept silent – somehow it seemed appropriate right now.

Finally, Watson fixed his gaze on one of the photos. His breathing quickened – Sherlock saw his chest raising and falling rapidly, - and his eyes sparkled in triumph.

"Here. That's it!" Watson almost grins, trying to contain such inappropriate, from his point of view, emotions. "Look, Sherlock! Greg!"

Damn, isn't he beautiful now!

For Holmes it was like seeing himself from an outsider's viewpoint – seeing everything through John's eyes. Some strange emotion he couldn't identify filled him with strange, unexplainable warmth and… pride?

"Sherlock, look. Do you hear me?" there were notes of impatience in Watson's voice.

Pride. Yes.

Because, damn it, these notes were so familiar – sounding so similar to his…

Holmes leaned closer, looking at the photo which elicited such tumultuous reaction from the doctor.

It showed a row of lockers. Ordinary grey lockers with small white name labels on each one.

Without saying a word, John pushed a piece of paper into his hand – an extract from the medical file.

Sherlock slowly looked from the photo to the paper and back again.

"Do you see it?"

"Yes. But that doesn't mean anything, John. The fact that those girls studied in the same school…"

"I know, Sherlock. Just look at the date," the doctor sighed, keeping his temper in check. "The date in the allergist's notes, the diagnosis. The date when the test was done."

"…two days before the last victim's death," Holmes' eyes widened. "It means her first try in this school was unsuccessful. John, this is fantastic!"

"Yeah, I think so," Watson snorted. "Don't you have a feeling of déjà-vu, by the way?"

"No. Not at all."

Sherlock tried to look nonchalant.

But John saw his friend's eyes sparkling with mischief – and couldn't keep the smile off his face.

There was a pointed clearing of throat in the background.

"If you're finished with the self-admiration, care to tell me what the hell is going on?"

The doctor looked at Holmes, receiving a barely noticeable nod in return.

That's right. It was John's hour of triumph.

"Lily Milton, Warwick School's student, was brought to the allergist two days before Leola's death," Watson gave the paper with the extract from the medical file to the DI. "Do you see the date here? The girl had a rash, an itch, a respiratory obstruction – the full package, so to speak. She was given the preliminary diagnosis and sent to do the tests to identify the allergen."

Lestrade looked at the paper closely and frowned.

"I see a list of possible allergens here. Milk, soy protein, peanuts, and… cocoa? Looks like an ingredients of a chocolate bar."

"Exactly! The chocolate!" the doctor smiled in triumph. "And Lily was studying at the same school as Leola. Look, here's her name on the locker."

"Yes, I can see the name, John," the DI took the photo and nodded. "But what are the chances? I mean, somebody could just give the girl a chocolate. Or that were her parents… It could've been anybody! I think it's just a coincidence."

"You're wrong."

Lestrade looked in surprise at Sherlock who started to pull on his gloves.

"You're forgetting which school we're talking about," the detective sighed, seeing a confused expression on the DI's face. "It's a private school; the parents come once in a month. There are fresh fruits and vegetables in the menu, children are provided with healthy, balanced ration, where there's no place for chocolate, sweets and etcetera. No, somebody gave the chocolate to Lily – it's obvious. Which caused the allergic reaction, and the parents took their daughter home to show her to a specialist."

"Allergy never comes alone," John took the paper again, searching for the necessary information. "Here, that's it. Lily was bitten by a wasp not long ago, and the school nurse gave the girl Astemizole to prevent a possible allergy reaction. Doctor Sweet took the blood for the analysis a few days before that, when there were no antihistamines in the girl's blood – otherwise she would've detected it."

The DI's frowned.

"So you're saying that it saved the girl from an imminent death?"

"Fortunately, yes. But the concentration of an allergen in the chocolates Lily had been given was quite strong and the effect of Astemizole was already fading, so there was a reaction. A rash, itching, a respiratory obstruction. But without lethal outcome. And Doctor Sweet, seeing as his actions weren't successful, chose another victim. Regrettably…"

"There's one thing I don't understand. If Lily was bitten by a wasp, why here's this list?" Greg looked into the paper Watson was holding. "Cacao, milk, soy protein and peanuts?"

"That's where it gets interesting, Inspector," Sherlock grinned. "Because Lily told that somebody gave her the chocolates. She told it to the school nurse, to her parents, to her physician. This clever little girl remembered everything. And possibly connected the fact of her illness with that event. We need to question her."

"She's not so little, by the way. Lily is almost seven. No wonder she managed to remember – children at this age are very perceptive."

"Doesn't matter," Holmes waved his hand dismissively. "We're leaving. Come on, John."

With that the detective disappeared from Lestrade's office in a flash, leaving the doctor staring at the empty spot before him.

"I think I'd better go with him," Watson smiled. "Talking with children is definitely not Sherlock's forte."

"Oh yeah," Greg grinned in return. "I hope I can count on you this time? I would've preferred not to do the apology thing afterwards..."

The impatient 'John!' from the corridor forced the doctor to start pulling his coat on.

"Don't worry; I'll keep an eye on him. And I think it would be good if you talk with the nurse from the school…"

"We already sent for Miranda Dawson," the DI nodded. "I let you know if anything new comes up."

Cursing under his breath, John stormed out of the office, already giving up on the idea of catching up with the detective: Sherlock's long legs had probably already carried him far away. That's why Holmes almost gave him a heart attack by suddenly stepping forward and appearing in his field of vision.

"For God's sake, Sherlock! You scared me! Why are you still here?"

"I was listening to you two gossiping about me," the detective shrugged his shoulders.

"So you were eavesdropping?" John sighed and rolled his eyes, biting back a sarcastic comment. "Christ, Sherlock, we'd better go. Considering the evening traffic jams, we should hurry up if we want to get to Milton's house before midnight."

Watson sharply turned on his heels and marched towards the exit without looking back.

That's why he didn't see a smile on Sherlock's lips.


	6. Chapter 6

**A note from the translator: I'm splitting the long chapters into the shorter ones, which will allow me to update more often. Enjoy and see you soon! :)  
**

In the taxi John suddenly felt very tired. He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, hoping to catch some sleep while they were on the way – luckily, at times like this Sherlock always preferred to think in silence.

However, this time is different – there was a demonstrative fussing and sighing going on beside him.

And that meant Serlock wanted to talk. God knows why he still hasn't said a word. Usually the detective never paid attention if John wanted to hear him or not – he just talked.

Talked, explained, narrated – until the moment Watson, forgetting about his fatigue, hunger, urge to sleep and getting cold coffee, started to reply, becoming involved in a conversation. Not because he had no other choice – even if the situation often looked that way, - but because he was really interested.

But that's not what's important.

What's important – is that Sherlock interested in talking, explaining, narrating – to John. Arguing with John. Seeing in his eyes admiration, amazement, and sometimes even accusation. But admiration is the best. And that warmth which made Sherlock feel comfortable and brought a smile on his lips.

Watson sighed deeply before opening his eyes and meeting Holmes' gaze. The detective was practically burning with impatience.

But kept silent.

Oh, of course! How John could've forgotten?..

Sherlock was waiting for a question – the one which would make him sigh in exasperation. And a moment later he would give John a look that conveys all his thoughts about John's mental abilities.

… and soon after that he would launch into his breakneck deduction speech – right until the moment when he would pause to hear that cherished word…

"Extraordinary!"

"John?" Sherlock frowned, seeing a thoughtful smile on Watson's face. "Is everything alright? You look… strange."

"Quite a statement for your brilliant mind," the doctor chuckled, looking into the detective's surprised eyes. "Everything's fine. I'm just tired. And I probably think too much."

Holmes sniffed and turned to the window.

For some reason, such behaviour reminded Watson of an offended child.

The child comes from the school, intending to share a newly discovered knowledge – for example, that the Earth goes around the Sun. But his parents shoo him away, referring to some strange thing called "fatigue".

What fatigue are they talking about?

Well, maybe it's not a very good example: Sherlock doesn't know what goes around what. He doesn't need this information. He already got rid of it. Erased. Banished from his hard disk. But – and John is sure of it, - Sherlock knows that John goes around him.

A small, unhurried, comfy planet near a bright Star.

What could be more natural?

The doctor sighed, looking at the silent detective with a smile.

"Sherlock… What was in that chocolate?"

"Nothing."

"You mean," John faltered. "What do you mean – 'nothing'? Nothing – as in…"

"Is there a problem with your ears?" Holmes huffed in agitation, leaning back in his seat. "There was nothing in the chocolate. No poison. No allergen. Just a plain chocolate with a marzipan filling. Almond and penicillin have nothing in common, don't you agree?"

"But why?"

"She is playing. Teasing. Teasing, don't you understand? She's enjoying it."

John opened his mouth to ask a question, but right at that moment the phone in his pocket decided to come to life.

"It's Lestrade," the detective said automatically, not bothering to look at the screen. "And I don't think we're going to like what he has to say."

The DI's voice sounded tired and defeated.

"John, we need both of you to return to Scotland Yard. Lily Milton's parents are here. I want Sherlock to speak with them…"

"What… and were's Lily?" John looked at Holmes in confusion.

The detective pressed his lips together and nodded slightly. He already understood everything.

"…Lily disappeared. Two hours ago."


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock spoke with Miltons because Watson asked him, sparing for the whole thing only five minutes. And after that John had to talk to them for almost half an hour – to calm them just a little.

Lestrade wasn't happy. When the door closed behind the sobbing parents, he turned on Holmes with indignation – but the detective just waved him away, as if the DI was some insect, buzzing annoyingly nearby.

"I learned everything I needed to know," the detective objected calmly, leaving the inspector growling in despair. "They didn't have any new information, and their emotional state made our further conversation senseless."

"Their daughter disappeared," Watson said quietly from the corner of the room. "What emotional state did you expect?"

"I didn't expect anything else," the detective huffed in irritation. "I don't see a reason why we should discuss my behavior toward Miltons. We should concentrate on the case and the task of finding the girl before she suffers the fate of the previous victims."

"But…"

"…and besides, John spoke with them. I'm sure everything will be alright."

Watson and Lestrade both simultaneously fell silent and looked at Sherlock in disbelief; the detective sighed loudly and rolled his eyes.

John snorted.

"Thank you. I'm flattered."

"You should be," Holmes grinned and a moment later added with a serious expression. "I really think so."

"Think what?"

'That no-one except you would calm those people,' the detective thought, looking into his friend's eyes. 'Because they trust you. Because you can be trusted…'

But he didn't say it out loud – just smiled meaningfully and shrugged his shoulders.

Lestrade cleared his throat.

"So, what do we know?"

"This morning Lily Milton's mother received a call from the hospital where the girl was treated by allergist. They asked for a repeat blood test. Said that there was a mistake due to a new laboratory assistant's carelessness. When Mrs Milton and Lily arrived at the hospital, they were met by a nurse who asked the mother to wait in the corridor during the procedure and then led the girl into a procedure unit. Twenty minutes later Mrs. Milton started to worry and went into the procedure unit – but Lily and the nurse weren't there…"

"She suggested drinking coffee," said John quietly but firmly.

"What?" Lestrade looked at the doctor in surprise.

"The nurse suggested to Mrs. Milton to have a cup of coffee while she waits. Coffee machine is in the other end of a corridor, around the corner."

"That's how the nurse managed to lead Lily out of the procedure unit without her mother noticing?"

"I think the nurse didn't ever bothered with coming into the unit," Sherlock said thoughtfully. "She just waited for a moment when Mrs. Milton was out of sight, and then left the hospital."

"I doubt I'd be able to trust doctors from now on," the DI rubbed his face tiredly. "Sorry, John. You, of course, will be the exception."

Watson answered with a mirthless smile.

"Of course."

"My people are already checking the CCTV records. Sherlock, would it be helpful if we question staff and patients? Maybe someone noticed something?"

"It would be a waste of time which we already don't have. She was just a person in the white medical uniform. One of the hundreds in a big hospital."

"And besides, this time Doctor Sweet was dressed as a laboratory assistant," added John. "A cap covering her hair, protective glasses, a mask… You couldn't see the face even if you wanted to. Which is easy to explain, by the way, - otherwise Lily would've recognised her."

Lestrade looked around his office in disappointment.

"So we don't have any clues?"

"We do. But I need to check something," Holmes grabbed his coat. "You, meanwhile, can go to the hospital and watch the CCTV records. Especially those on the outside – we need to know how Doctor Sweet led the girl out and where did they go afterwards. It would be perfect if you spot her car, although I pretty much doubt that – Amalia Sweet is very clever. Come on, John."

They were leaving the office when Lestrade's question stopped them.

"Sherlock! But why Sweet decided to kidnap the girl? Why not leave everything as it is?"

"Because she made a mistake, inspector. After all her planning and thorough preparation she made a mistake – and her victim survived. It's a panic attack, Lestrade. And if we hurry up, it might prove to be very useful."

"So you think Lily is still alive?" John asked with surprise.

Sherlock smiled – and the expression on his face sent shivers down Doctor Watson's back. This smile was a really bad sign.

"I know it, John."

An evening London greeted the two men with a spring shower, forcing them to shiver and wrap their coats tighter around themselves. The air smelled of fresh leaves and hot dust.

Holmes raised the collar of his coat watching as John tried to zip his coat. Unfortunately, the zipper stuck in the middle, refusing to move even an inch.

Cursing under his breath, Watson shoved his wet cold hands into his coat's pockets.

"Need any help?" Sherlock enquired with feigned nonchalance, watching as John's shirt gradually becomes soaked through.

"If you don't mind," the doctor grumbled, refusing to look at his friend.

Holmes pulled off his gloves and held them out to Watson.

"Here."

"What for?" John asked, frowning, but took the gloves nonetheless.

"They will hinder me. And you can warm your hands while I take care of your problem."

Sherlock stepped closer and, taking hold of the zipper, carefully pulled it up.

Watson lowered his head and, almost transfixed, watched the movement of the detective's long fingers. His friend's hands were so close that the doctor could feel the warmth radiating from them. It seemed like if he lowered his head a little more, he would press his nose into those palms, which, surprisingly, smelled of strawberry soap.

"Ah. Of course."

Notes of triumph in Sherlock's voice, an almost imperceptible movement of his fingers – and the zipper closes, leading the detective hands toward John's face.

The doctor exhales, jerking his head up.

Just in time.

Just in time to notice a strange expression on Holmes' face.

What is it? Concern?

"Thank you," there was a lump in his throat, and John coughed. "Thank you, Sherlock."

"You are welcome," the detective answered in a normal voice and frowned. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes. What would I do without you?" Watson joked, pulling on Sherlock's gloves.

They are still warm inside.

"I don't know. Probably gotten soaked to the skin, or broken the zipper?"

They looked at each other and laughed.

Holmes' hairs are already wet, and sticking to his in damp strands. Looking like this, with an honest smile and a drop of rainwater on the tip of his nose, Sherlock reminds John more of a boy than a genius consulting detective.

Had anyone except you, John Watson, seen him like this?

Holmes' mobile beeped in his pocket, informing about a new message. With a smile on his face Sherlock pulled his phone out, swiftly scanned the message…

…and his face changed.

John shivered, looking at that cold, emotionless expression. Whatever was in the message – it's certainly wasn't good.

"Sherlock… are you okay?"

Holmes looked at him thoughtfully and nodded.

"What is it? What's in the message?"

"Nothing important," the detective slid his phone back into his coat pocket. "Listen, John. I need you to go to Barts. Molly should've finished some tests for me, and I need you to collect the results. After that you can return to Baker Street. I'm hungry, and I won't object eating dinner. We do have food, if I'm not mistaken? I remember you filling our fridge the other day."

"But Sherlock… where are you going?" John felt he was missing something important when Holmes raised his arm to stop a taxi. "Why I can't come with you?"

"This would be quicker. And I need to think."

Watson came to his senses only when the car, which Sherlock had gotten into, disappeared around the doctor stared at his hands, unseeing – he was still wearing Sherlock's gloves.

A wave of uneasiness swept through John's body.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and started clumsily pressing the keys – which wasn't easy thing to do in gloves. But he had thought about taking them off…

…and then there was no time to think about anything.

Sherlock's phone was switched off.


	8. Chapter 8

First thing needed to be done in this situation was to stop paniking.

And that's exactly what John did.

After all, Holmes was adult, independent and, which was important, a clever man, capable of taking care of himself in a critical situation. John had no doubts this situation WAS critical; otherwise his genius of a friend wouldn't have switched off his mobile. As for clever…

"Bloody idiot..," Watson whispered, taking a deep breath and half-closing his eyes. "Bloody brainless idiot, where did you go all alone?"

Another deep breath.

Breathe, John Watson, breathe deeper.

Again.

Another breath.

That's it. Emotions were under control. Now was time for actions.

First thing was to call Molly. Just to make sure she didn't do any tests for Holmes, therefore John would've no need to go to Barts. And that meant Sherlock intentionally sent him away.

Cutting off all possible questions from the anxious girl, John quickly finished the conversation.

'I'm SO going to punch him when I find him,' Watson thought, dialling Lestrade's number. 'Or even better – spank him, so he wouldn't even think about doing that again.'

The DI listened to him calmly and suggested to return home.

"Listen, John," there are notes of weariness in Greg's voice when he interrupts Watson's tirade. 'You won't be able to do anything if Sherlock doesn't want it. And he doesn't if he tried to send you away."

"Exactly," the doctor grumbled. "He TRIED."

"John, for God's sake, don't do anything stupid, okay?"

"I can promise nothing. Would you call me if there's any new information?"

"Do I have a choice?"

221B Baker Street met John with such dense silence that it seemed he could reach out and touch it. Particles of dust drifted in the light of the street lamps as if in a kissel. The living room turned into space – so dark and cold it seemed to John Watson right now, when there weren't any signs of consulting detective's tireless activity. At any other time John would've been happy with this respite, and would undoubtedly use it to his advantage: to cook dinner, to read the journal he bought last week, and to watch another episode of that American cop show Sherlock loathed so much…

There was so much he could do! Have a good sleep, for example. Have a normal, human sleep once in a few weeks.

But not right now. Not in this situation, when his nerves were taut as strings.

Climbing the stairs to his bedroom, John dialled Mycroft's number.

"Good evening, Doctor Watson," despite a late hour, the voice of older Holmes was quite cheerful and energetic. "Or should I say 'Good night'? To what do I owe so unexpected attention from your side?"

"I want you to help me find your brother."

There was a quiet snort on the other end of the line.

"Sherlock escaped your care, Doctor?"

"Mycroft, there's neither time nor a place for the stupid jokes," John pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to keep the increasing anxiety. "Lockate him using his mobile, or use your access to the CCTV cameras. Just find him!"

"His phone is switched off, and you know perfectly well what that means," the older Holmes' voice became sharp and serious. "We can't track him without a signal. Of course I will issue an order… But searching for Sherlock is like searching for a needle in a haystack. I need more information."

"He took a taxi near Scotland Yard. And immediately swithed his phone off."

"Is that all?"

"No. No, wait. Sherlock received a message; he left right after that."

"What was in the message?"

"I don't know. He didn't tell me," John frowned. "But I think it's something… bad."

"Quite an exhaustive definition," Mycroft snorted. "Don't do anything stupud, Doctor Watson. It would be better if you stay at Baker Street. I will call you as soon as I get any information."

'It's as if they are in collusion…'

John threw the phone away and fell on the bed. His nerves were thrumming like a bow strings, and all his body was screaming for some action. Run. Find. Save. And tan his friend's hide for such stupidity

Because being apart with Sherlock – is wrong.

Because not knowing where he is and is he okay – is awful.

Inaction was tearing at his veins, pulsing with his blood, making his heart clench – so hard that it almost stopped. The air was noisily exhaled through the clenched teeth.

Now, when John done everything he could, the anxiety started to rise again like a tidal wave – so strong that he seemed to choke from his own frightening thoughts. Watson felt nauseaus with panic, which made him swallow convulsively again and again.

Dammit!

John jumped to his feet and walked to the table. Not switching the lamp on, he pulled out the top drawer – so strong that it flew out of slots and fell on the floor, striking Watson's fingers quite painfully. The false bottom moved aside, revealing a secret compartment with a gun.

His gun was a present from Sherlock, instead of the one he had thrown in the Thames.

Well… sort of a present. Holmes and presents in John Watson's mind were as compatible as Holmes and striped jumpers.

The story was simple: one fine morning Sherlock brought him this new, smelling of oil SIG Sauer with a filed off markings and an additional cartridge clip.

And all he said was:

"Yours."

And John took it.

In the silence of the bedroom, swarmed with semi-darkness, a sharp trill of his phone made the doctor jerk in surprise. Pulling the gun out of the compartment in one smooth move, Watson lunged toward the mobile which he earlier threw right under the bed.

It was Lestrade.

"John, two CCTV cameras registered the moment Amalia Sweet left the hospital with Lily," he was excited and there was a note of anxiety in his voice. "More than that, we managed to spot her car. It's a Land Rover Discovery, graphite-coloured…"

"Registration number?" something caught in his throat and John's voice became a wheeze. "Do you have a registration number?"

"Unfortunately we could make out the whole number, it was covered in mud. Just two letters – W and V. We started the official retrieval…"

"Yes. Yes. Okay, Greg. Okay… It's… It's good news."

_CallMycroftCallMycroftCallMy croft…_

"John is everything alright?" there were notes of concern in Lestrade's voice. "Where are you now?"

"I'm home, on Baker Street. Everything's fine, Greg. Everything's fine. Thank you for calling."

"I'll keep you posted."

John heavied a sigh, trying to calm his nerves. Clutched the phone in his hand, staring unseeing on the dark screen.

Breath in – breath out. Breath in – breath out. Emotions under control. Now he could take the next step.

'Land Rover Discovery, graphite-coloured. Registration number begins with WV. If you find the car, you find Sherlock.'

The message was sent.

Right at that moment, the mobile seemed to come alive in John's hand. The screen lit up and started flashing. The network indicator showed no signal… and the phone switched off.

"Blast you!" Watson tried to keep at bay the urge to throw the damned thing against the wall. He put down the gun he was clutchin in the other hand. When the phone refused to switch on after a press of the button, John carefully took off the engraved back cover and pulled out the battery. He was ready to shake it, but stopped, understanding the absurdity of that urge.

Two seconds later Watson put the battery back; the back cover slid into place with a loud click. Soft, unsure htssure or a finger – and the screen lit up obediently, illuminating the doctor's pale face with a blueish light.

…it took a few moments for the mobile to catch the network signal.

And then the phone came to life again, announcing the arrival of two new messages.

The first one is from Mycroft. Dry and informative. They had began the search for Doctor Sweet's car. And somehow John didn't doubt the older Holmes' people will find the murderer's Land Rover much faster than Scotland Yard police.

The second message…

…the second…

…is from Sherlock.

John's heart missed a beat. Another one. And another. A sarp pain shot through his left leg, and John slowly crumbled to the floor.

'*part of the message is missing*…ous.'

His first desire is to call back.

But the detective's phone is still switched off. The doctor swears under his breath.

Mentally, John was putting together a vague list of physical injuries he was yearning to inflict on insufferable younger Holmes. Personally.

But all the crazy maniacs and murderers had no rights to do Sherlock even the slightest harm. Absolutely. No. Rights.

Because they didn't bolt upright on the bed, woken by firing on the walls at four in the morning.

Because they didn't rush to the other side of London just to pass the phone or send the text.

Because they didn't breathe down the neck of an owner of the most insufferable and arrogant gaze in the world until he would clean the plate with his dinner to the last crumb…

And therefore only John Watson had the right to kill or maim Sherlock.

No one else.

Swearing and almost missing the buttons, the doctor dialled Mycroft's number.

"…I just wrote you…"

"I received a message from your brother's phone," John interrupted impatiently, tucking the gun into a place at the small of his back. "Just now."

"See, Doctor Watson, he is fi…"

"You didn't hear me out! Bloody hell, do all Holmes have this annoying habit?" The worry was sequeing into anger, bordering on the fury. "The message was sent about forty minutes ago, which makes it roughly the time Sherlock disappeared after Scotland Yard. I don't know… maybe it was a glitch during the connection, or there's something wrong with my phone – but I recived just a part of the message."

"What it says?"

"…its content forces me to surmise your brother needs my help."

"What was in the message, Doctor Watson?" Mycroft was starting to sound angry.

Oh, he definitely didn't like his questions being ignored!

"That's what you need to find out!" unexpectedly for himself snapped John. "And also what was in the message Sherlock received before so spectacularly taking off and leaving me alone. And, to tell the truth, I'm very surprised you didn't guess to do all that earlier."

Mycroft paused for a moment before answering. Was he getting himself under control, or just giving Watson the time to cool off – it wasn't clear. Anyway, when the older Holmes started to speak again, his voice was absolutely calm and impartial.

Too calm, even.

"I'm thoroughly impressed by your loyality to Sherlock. And while I'm absolutely sure my insufferable little brother is not in danger, I will comply with your request."

"Would you be so kind..," John grumbled after Mycroft hang up.


	9. Chapter 9

Moving noiselessly, Sherlock Holmes slipped inside a disused sweet factory.

To connect the killings made by using chocolate with this bilding – how unoriginal.

The detective shook his head, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He really should've doubted the cleverness of his adversary from the beginning. It all was too perfect. And the mistake was too stupid.

And then – an elementary panic. A kidnapping. And such a dull choice – a disused sweet factory building. The pussle pieces don't fit with each other – like parts of different pictures.

There was clearly another hand in the play.

Especially considering the last message he received.

…Moriarty?

There was a total darkness inside, even with the bleak moonlight filtering through the windows. Shards of glass were glinting faintly in the ground. Dust-covered machines towered around, giving opportunity both for a hideout and a presumed ambush for the detective.

Holmes was absolutely sure about the last one.

He could only hope John understood everything correctly. The detective was used to working in pair – he liked his back covered.

And to count on Watson's help was somehow even more pleasurable.

Sliding his hand into his coat pocket, Sherlock closed his fingers around the flashlight with a tad of regret. To use it right now was to give out his current position – which didn't feature in his nearest plans. Of course he will be inevitably discovered later, but at least not right away.

The darkness was getting on his nerves. The detective needed to see in order to come to the right conclusions. Sherlock's eyesight was one of his main instruments. He got used to count on his eyes more than on his other senses.

Now he could count only on his ears.

The silence, filled with sounds of a night insects, was instantly shattered by a desperate child's scream. It felt like a sharp knife cutting through his body. Something lurched in his chest, filling his vein with a cold, viscous terror.

His heart sped up, hammering against his ribcage.

And Sherlock run. As noiselessly as it was possible in a current situation.

"Mom! Mummy! Help me! Mooooom! Hurts, hurts, hurts! Stop it! Stop! Mom! Mummyyyy!"

A piece of glass shattered under his heel, but the detective didn't even notice that. His legs were carrying him forward.

Because right in front of him, in a shop with a half-destroyed production line, his target was already seen.

In a stream of bleak moonlight filtering into a facility through a broken window under the roof, tied to a bulky chair sat kidnapped Lily Milton. She wasn't screaming anymore. Her head has fallen forward, and her long fair hair covered her face.

She was alone.

A deceptive impression. Sherlock could practically feel somebody's gaze trained on him, although he couldn't say with certainity where it came from. All he could do is to throw in the bait and hope that John with a cavalry would come in time.

Sherlock slowly walked towards the girl and crouched in front of her.

"Hey, how are you…"

Lily was unconscious.

Probably dosed up with drugs – there was a small red dot on the inner side of her elbow, just above the vein. The girl's breathing was slow and deep, as if she was sleeping, but her dry and parched, almost white lips were clearly indicating the innatural source of this sleep. John definitely would know more about that than he.

It just…

Sherlock looked at his wristwatch and shook his head – his friend was being late. It wasn't like him at all.

The detective didn't have time to climb to his feet. There was a shrill sound, and something was stuck painfully into the back of his neck.

'A dart?...'

Holmes dropped to the side like a sack of potatoes, and the darkness swallowed him…


	10. Chapter 10

First thing Sherlock saw when he woke up was a boot. Dark-brown boot with an offwhite thick sole. The sole was worn-out on the inner side – since those times when John was limping. Sherlock told him numerous times that he should buy new comfortable boots! But it was John, with his conservative views, warm hand-knitted jumpers and old worn-out boots. And he couldn't be anyone else.

…John!

Holmes jerked his head up – and it immediately answered with a sharp pain somewhere at the back of his head. The detective's brain switched online, starting to analyse everything he saw.

The things he saw were quite interesting.

He was still in the shop with a half-destructed production line, lying on the floor, on the same place were he was hit with a dart. Behind Sherlock's back sat Lily Milton, tied to the chair with a scotch. The girl was still unconscious.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes! Awake already? You can join us, then," the voice, too high to belong to an adult person, grated on his nerves. "We were missing you."

John, standing with his legs wide apart, shielded the detective and the girl with his back. In his left hand, lowered and pressed against his thight, was a loaded gun with a safety off. Watson's stance clearly spoke of a tension – it was barely noticeable, but still caused Sherlock to feel a slight tingling in the tips of his fingers.

But only Holmes could recognise this tension.

For a small fair-haired woman, who stood opposite, John was an embodiment of calmness and confidence. And it frightened her – Sherlock saw a fear in her eyes, in her forced smile and in her pursed in disdain lips.

Her arms were crossed on her chest in a protective gesture.

Of course. The ex-army doctor with a loaded gun in his hand wasn't a helpless little girl, Miss Sweet.

Especially if said doctor was protecting what was dear to him.

Sherlock slowly got to his feet – his head was still spinning a little, - and leaned on John's shoulder. The warmth of his body, even through the thick material of his slightly damp coat, was seemingly seeping right into the detective's heart. His breathing evened out and the detective squared his shoulders, inhaling deeper.

"Are you okay?" John asked quietly, half-turning his head to look at his friend.

"I'm fine. Fi..," Sherlock caught John's eyes and exhaled sharply.

The doctor's gaze was loaded with barely restricted fury.

And… relief?

"What took you so long?" the detective tried to ignore what he saw, but there was a strange lump in his throat. "I expected you to come at least half an hour earlier."

"You expected? You EXPECTED?!" John's whisper was full of fury, but his eyes were still trained on Amalia Sweet. "Damn you, Sherlock! I had to give Mycroft a hard time to find you."

"I would love to see that..," Holmes drawled thoughtfully and then cringed with displeasure.

This definitely wasn't good news.

But something was still not clear for him in this situation.

"I sent you a message, John..," Sherlock said, trying to sound chastened and looking into his friend's eyes; usually it worked like a charm. "I wrote that you need to take your gud and…"

"I didn't get your message, Sherlock."

"…What? But…"

Right at that moment they heard a movement nearby.

Doctor Amalia Sweet moved closer, watching the furiously arguing men with a smile. Her fear was gone – now she was thoroughly enjoying the situation, and hasn't even trying to hide a smile.

"I hope you haven't forgotten about me, my dear collegue?"

John flinched – Sherlock felt that because he was still leaning on John's shoulder.

"I don't see a reason to waste my time on you," Watson voice was surprisingly calm, and it didn't at all tally with those emotions he was exhibiting a few seconds before. "We found the girl and already alerted the authorities. The police are going to be here any second and…"

"You know I'm a big fan of your blog, my dear collegue," Amalia interrupter John impatiently. "I really enjoy reading it. You describe your friend in such deliteful words. Is he really that good?.."

The woman definitely had an ace up her sleeve – it was clearly seen in her exultant gaze, in her relaxed posture and in that slight smile which was tugging at the corners of her lips. But, for some reason, she wasn't in a hurry to lay her cards on the table.

She was biding her time.

But why?

John grinned and nodded at Sherlock almost imperceptibly.

"You better believe it."

The confidence that short phrase was laden with made Holmes forget about his dizziness and the pain at the back of his head. He looked at his friend – and couldn't force himself to look away.

Simply because nobody never in his life was capable to believe in Sherlock so strongly. To believe Sherlock.

And now it was an absolute confidence.

An infallible constant.

John met his gaze and smiled in embarrassment. The stern Captain Watson faded into a background, yielding his place to a flatmate – the doctor in soft and comfortable jumper. And Sherlock enjoyed this brief methamorphosis happening right before his eyes.

He shifted his gaze to the woman and pursed his lips.

And started speaking. Not for her. Amalia Sweet's opinion meant nothing to him.

For him.

For John.

For his doctor.

For his friend.

"Your age is approximately thirty five; you aren't married, and have never been. You have no children and not capable of bearing a child due to the state of your health. In your childhood you developed a strong allergy to one of the components of the chocolates, most likely cacao or soy protein, and your parents banished some products from your ration. Including chocolate. You had a younger sister, who could eat sweets without any risks, and you hated her – your parents bought her chocolate but you were forbidden to eat it. She probably made a good use of that fact – teased you, drove you crazy to the point when it came to blows, and that, in turn, lead to reprimands from your parents. When you grew older, you seemed to choose the right road: you entered a medical college and later graduated from the university and became an allergist. But you turned out to be a mediocre specialist, and hated your patients, because they reminded you of your fickle and egoistic sister."

The thriumphant smile started to slip from Amalia's face.

John grinned. It seemed to be quite enough.

But Sherlock was determined to continue.

"The first murder was incidental. You saw a child who, as you in your childhood, insistenly asked for chocolates. You gave it to her without an ulterior motive, even with a good intention. You even probably watched in total horror as the girl died right in front of your eyes, but a state of shock didn't allow you to make an attempt of saving her."

Watson swallowed and averted his eyes. To look Doctor Sweet in the face became difficult with each word Sherlock said in a calm voice.

He gripped the handle of his gun more firmly.

"And then something clicked in your mind, and you wanted to see it again. And again. And again…"

"This bitch got married, and there was a chocolate cake at her wedding!" Amalia blurted suddenly, losing all her self-control. "As if on purpose! I hate her! Hate her! I should've killed her when she was little, strangled this little bitch with her favourite pillow, force her to gorge chocolates till her death…"

"I think you need to settle for one or another," Sherlock smirked, earning a stern look from his friend. "Ahem. Yes. The thing is, when you were killing those girls you imagined your sister instead. You even chose victims with the same blood group as hers. Dull. Boring. Predictable. There's only one thing I need you to tell me before the police arrives: who is the person that was helping you?"

"Your big fan, Mr Holmes."

John's heart skipped a beat. He exhaled convulsively, watching as the woman's expression changed from hysterical to the triumphant once again.

And her smile caused an unpleasant feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach.

"Do you want some sweets, Doctor Watson?"

A swift movement of her arm – and John automatically caught a chocolate in a bright-coloured wrapper.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock smirked. "John is not going to eat that."

"Oh, you're so big and so greedy? Do you want one too? Here – catch!"

A bright flash, another swift movement – and Sherlock caught the similar chocolate.

"Have you ever wondered if you made a right choice with the cabbie, Mr Holmes? Did you choose a good pill or a bad pill?" the woman seemed to be practically purring – and that, combined with her high, almost childish voice, doubled the repulsion. "Here's a new puzzle for you, my genius friend. One of those chocolates is poisoned. And here are the rules: one chocolate for you, another – for sweet Doctor Watson."

"You are really insane if you think we're going to eat that," John shook his head.

"Not at all," Amalia smiled. "Just one life for another. You see, while we were having this pleasant conversation, and our brilliant friend was showing off his deductive abilities, time – that elusive thing, was slipping like sand through fingers."

"Sand is falling," Sherlock pulled a face. "Don't waste time with your pathetic attempts to talk big. John's blog is quite enough for me; don't follow his example."

"You are so biting! Have a chocolate, you'll feel better," the woman threw her head back and burst into an unhealthy laugh, then fell silent again, lowering her head. "He doesn't think much of you, my dear Doctor, does he?"

"It's none of your business," Watson said through clenched teeth.

This whole situation started to get on his nerves.

"Why? I think it definitely is," Amalia smiled again. "Do you want to hear about my puzzle?"

"No!" it was said almost simultaneously.

"Well, you have to. The thing is, I injected Lily with one interesting poison. It doesn't begin to act right away. While we were chatting, she came to the point of no return. Another..," the woman looked at her watch, "Another four minutes, and Lily will be beyond saving. The poison is very complex, you won't be able to identify it and prepare the antidote for such a short period of time."

"You're bluffing..," even in a bleak moonlight John could see that Sherlock went pale.

"Care to check, Mr Holmes?" Amalia smirked. "One life for another. You eat those chocolates in your hands – I give you an antidote and surrender to the police. I want you to finish the game, my dear detective. And choose the right chocolate. And at the same time we will see how much you value the life of your precious doctor."

John swallowed, casting a glance at the chocolate in the detective's hand…

If only he would just…

"The clock is ticking."

Sherlock instantly noticed that imperceptible change in Watson – a concentrated expression on his face, lips pressed together tightly, slight forward tilt of his head, - he looked like a big cat prepared for a jump. To make the picture complete he was missing a tail lashing against his strained legs.

He wasn't going to let that happen.

Holmes closed his fingers around the chocolate and put his hands behind his back.

John's determination immediately changed into confusion.

"What are you doing?"

"No."

"What… why? I mean, what are you talking about?"

"I know you wanted to knock the chocolate out of my hand. You obviously decided to eat both of them, and therefore protect me and save the girl. That's why I said 'no'."

"But Sherlock..," John shook his head and looked at the smugly smiling woman with hatred. "You got to understand it's logical."

"I don't see any logic here," the detective shrugged his shoulders, trying to sound nonchalant.

But why his heart was pounding so loudly in his ears?

"It's quite simple. You, with your amazing brain, are capable of saving me in time, I'm sure of that," Watson spoke quicky, ignoring Amalia's outright smirk. "And… even if it won't pan out, you're the one who should survive."

"Why?"

"Well… because it's you, don't you see? The one in the world consulting detective Sherlock Holmes," John exhales and averts his gaze. "There are going to be plenty of old retired soldiers with a crippled soul in this world – as long as wars would continue. But you will always be The One, Sherlock. The One and Only. Nothing will change that."

"… but can you imagine how Donovan would be pleased," Holmes said just to say anything.

Because he simply was at loss for words.

Of course he understood John's logic perfectly.

He couldn't disagree with his friend – out of them two, it was him who should've survived. But…

To hell with all that logic.

Damn it!

In the detective's opinion, it was John who needed to survive. And no one else.

Just because… it's John. John.

"You have three minutes left."

Sherlock stepped closer to his friend, placed his hands on John's shoulders and sighed.

"You really want to do this?"

John stuck out his chin and looked straight at Holmes. His eyes were full of determination. He nodded slowly.

Bloody idiot!

"Fine. If only we'd have more time! I would definitely… But if you insist… But we'll do it together, just as Doctor Sweet wants."

"But Sherlock…"

"Don't worry," Sherlock squeezed his friend's shoulders. "I know which chocolate is poisoned. Give me yours… And don't look at me like that; I just want to be sure."

John placed his chocolate on Sherlock's open palm with reluctance. The detective looked it over, smelled it, touched the wrapper with a tip of his tongue – and scrunched his face in disdain.

"Definitely isn't poisioned. So, the poison is in mine."

"Give it to me."

Sherlock hesitated, still holding John's gaze. There were a few drops of sweat above his upper lip, his breathing was deep and sharp, his pupils dilated.

He was nervous.

All will be well, John.

Holmes reached out and placed a warm, melted a little chocolate on John's open palm.

"Looks like I'll need to lick it from the wrapper," the doctor smiled. "Have you done that on purpose, Sherlock?"

"Of course."

Holmes smirked and unwrapped his chocolate. He thied to ignore his madly beating heart, which was ready to leap out of his chest. His pulse was off-scale; apprehension rose in his chest, forcing the detective to cringe painfully.

"Are you alright?" Watson carefully touched Sherlock's hand with the tips of his fingers. "If you are ready, let's do it on three."

"I don't see a reason for delay," the detective shrugged his shoulders and threw the chocolate into his mouth in one swift movement. John exhaled and followed his example. In the silence that followed both swallowed audibly.

A triumphant grin spread on Amalia Sweet's face.

For the first minute or so, nothing happened. John listened to his inner sensations, trying to understand how exactly his death would feel. However, nothing changed – his breathing remained unaffected, eyesight and hearing is still sharp and clear, and nothing hurts. Except maybe his heartbeat was a little rapid, - but that could have been easily explained by an adrenaline rush, - and a sickly sweet taste in his mouth from the chocolate whick intensified his thirst.

John looked at his friend in confusion… and froze, stunned by an incredibly warm and such un-Sherlock smile, which was lighting up his whole face. The doctor's heart skipped a beat, and suddenly it became hard to breath. An understanding dawned on Watson like a leaden weight.

And then…

Holmes jerked abruptly, as if a mad pappeteer tugged at the whole bunch of strings simultaneously. Gripping Watson's shoulders convulsively, he opened his mouth in desperate but unsuccessful attempt to take a deap breath.

Something was gurgling and wheezing in his throat – a terrible, frightening sound.

"Sherlock!"

Like a puppet with all its strings cut off, the detective slowly, as if in a stupid action film, slid to the floor.

Watson dropped on his knees beside his friend, feeling a nagging pain which flooded his body.

"Shhe… Sherlock…"

"John..," the detective gripped the doctor's sleeve, trying to swallow convulsively. "John, time… The girl… Antidote, hurry up."

Watson didn't want to move, didn't want to avert his eyes from this body, twisted in therminal agony, - but Sherlock's words and his practically pleading gaze forced the doctor to get to his feet.

He raised the gun he was still clutching in his hand, and targeted Amalia's head in a one smooth move.

"You!" John's voice was filled with such hatred that the woman visibly shrinked and started to back away. "Where's the antidote? Tell me, or I'll kill you."

"In my blood."

"…What?"

"The antidote is in my blood."

Amalia was practically whispering – and Watson was forced to strain his ears to understand her.

When she fished a single-use syringe from her pocket, her hands were shaking.

And suddenly John couldn't stant it anymore – as if something inside of him, some complicated and well-tuned mechanism suddenly broke down. He took a step forward and dealed one measured blow which knocked the woman out.

When Amalia dropped like a stone to his feet, the doctor briefly thought that if she wasn't a woman he would've kicked her senseless body with a pleasure.

Those thoughts were disgusting.

He grabbed a packet with the syringe and quickly tore it open.

"Bloody insanitary..," he swore under his breath, trying not to slip into hysteric. "When will you learn to take with you a first-aid kit instead of a gun, Doctor Watson?"

It took a few seconds for him to find a vein and slip a needle inside – even in a stressful situation John remained a professional. But the awful wheezing sounds behind his back were a bloody hard thing to ignore.

This is your war, Captain Watson – it came for you.

Do you remember how it feels, when your friend dies on your hands, and there's absolutely nothing you can do?

Amalia's blood seemed to be thick and almost black in the semi-darkness. The syringe gradually became warm, and Watson cringed – it felt as if he was holding a slimy disgusting creature.

He crawled on his knees towards the girl. To get rid of all this scotch would've been marvellous, but there was no time for that right now.

This time to find a vein proved to be a real challenge – Lily was small and thin, and John hesitated for a couple of seconds before inserting the needle…

And then the time stopped. And he was really afraid they lost their chance.

Just because then… Sherlock…

Watson ripped the scotch off and took the child into his arms. Even in the bleak moonlight he could see as her skin slowly regained its natural colour. Her breathing evened out – now she was just sound asleep. Her lips turned pink and opened slightly.

John took a deep breath and carefully lowered the girl onto the floor, laying her down on his coat which he placed there beforehand.

Now everything was going to be alright.

Except…

"Sherlock!" Watson suddenly realised that Holmes stopped wheezing and was quiet now. "Sherlock, do you hear me?"

He crawled over to his friend and placed Sherlock's head on his lap. Pressed his trembling fingers to the detective's neck, dreading the worst…

…and breathed out with relief, feeling a strong, constant pulse under his fingers.

Sherlock opened his eyes slowly and looked at John with unexpected warmth.

"How is she? How is the girl?" his voice was hoarse and weak, and Watson had to lean closer in order to hear him. "Is she okay?"

"Yes. She is safe. Of course the blood test won't do any harm, just in case. Considering the insanitary here…"

"You saved people on the battelfild in worse conditions, right?" Holmes smiled.

"Right."

"What about Amalia? Did our dear doctor give you any hardship?"

"Not really," John answered with a croocked grin. "She is unconscious."

"Oh," was all that the detective said, closing his eyes.

…but a moment later he sat up abruptly and looked at the gaping Watson guiltily.

"What the…"

"John, I can explain everything. Just hear me out."

"Christ, Sherlock… you were… I was…"

"John."

"You set everything up, don't you?" Watson slowly climbed to his feet. "You planned and thought about everything, bloody genius."

Sherlock followed his example and now was slowly and metodically brushing off his coat and avoiding to look into John's eyes. Heartless bastard!..

Two emotions were warring withing Watson.

Joy was the first one. Or, for a better choice of word, he was happy everything ended well and the genius detective's brain solved another case brilliantly.

But the other…

Oh, that was the exact reason why John without a second thought punched the familiar face as soon as Sherlock looked at him.

"Happy now?" the detective cringed, touching his bleeding cheekbone. "Was it necessary to hit in the same spot?"

"I have a right to hit where I want, because I'll be the one patching you up afterwards," John grumbled, rubbing his hurt knuckles. "Spill up before I'd decide to give you another smack."

Sherlock nodded and slowly sat down on the chair which Lily Milton was tied to not lomg ago. He had to admit, the doctor packed quite a punch – his head was still ringing.

"As you remember, there was no allergen in the chocolate found in Leola Arton's hand. However, I found traces of a highly toxic herbicide on the wrapper. The test showed it was a poison with a delayed effect, which, actually, arised my suspicions, so I made an antidote just to be safe," the detective struggled for breath and coughed.

"Is everything alright?" John came closer and crouched down in front of his friend, placing a hand on his knee. "You are not going to die anymore?"

"Almost," Holmes half-closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth Watson seemed to be radiating. "Seems like the poison is still active – I'm having some problems with breathing."

"You need to go to the hospital," the doctor shook his head. "I suppose you injected the antidote before you rushed here?"

"Yes. And if you came on time, we would give you a shot too," Sherlock's voice sounded genuinely apologetic. "Everything would've been different and I wouldn't have to fake my death, which was… which caused you… Why you were late, John? Did you get my message?"

Watson sighed dejectedly. He didn't have power to be angry right now.

"You're an idiot, Sherlock. Do you know that?"

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, opened the Inbox and gave the mobile to the surprised detective.

"Damn..," Holmes frowned and then looked at his friend with brightened eyes. "But you found me."

Almost childish delight in a voice of the consulting genius prompted John to smile back.

"Of couse I found you. Gave a hard time to a half of London, including your brother. If you hadn't switched your phone off, everything would be much easier…"

"But I didn't switch it off, John," Holmes looked away.

"What do you mean 'you didn't'?"

In an abrupt silence the doctor could hear Sherlock's puffing.

The detective fished his mobile out of his pocket and trust it into Watson's hand.

"Well, it's switched off," John frowned and pressed the 'On' button. "What the hell?.."

The screen blinked, showing the empty battery warning, and went dark again.

"Do you see now?" Holmes stubbornly avoided meeting Watson's gaze. "I didn't switch it off. It did that… on its own."

"Sherlock..," the doctor did his best to hide his smile. "Are you saying the battery was flat? Then why you didn't put it on recharge?"

"Because I used to you doing that."

A moment later the police sirens sounded in the distance…


	11. Chapter 11

They managed to return to their flat on Baker Street only in the morning. Lestrade made John promise that they will return after getting a decent sleep. The detective just snorted in reply.

But he didn't say anything.

To tell the truth, sleep was the last thing Holmes wanted – on a contrary, he was practically boiling with an unexplainable energy. John, stifling a yawn, declared that Sherlock had his beauty sleep while lying unconscious after being hit with the dart. Watson himself, however, lowered his head on the detective's shoulder in the taxi – and fell asleep a few minutes later, snuggled against Sherlock's coat.

It was clearly an aftermath of a long, extremely tiring and emotional day – and Sherlock couldn't blame his friend for that.

All things considered, John managed to arrive in the nick of time.

Well… almost.

When they stepped into the flat the doctor, to Holmes' immense surprise, didn't go upstairs into his bedroom, as the detective expected. Dropping his coat on the back of his chair, John wandered towards the kitchen and turned the kettle on.

"What are you doing?"

"For starters, I'm going to make us some coffee. Isn't that obvious?"

After splashing cold water on his face, Watson felt significantly better. Sherlock's astonishment also seemed to fuel the doctor – an amazed expression in those eyes was worth postponing of so desired sleep for some time. Life with Sherlock often demanded a necessity of non-sleeping for days, so an additional couple of hours without sleep made no difference.

"Come here," John pulled a stool from under the table and patted the seat invitingly.

"What for?"

The detective sat down slowly and wrapped his hands around a mug of hot coffee, which miraculously appeared in front of him.

Watson sighed and reached into a cupboard for the first-aid kit.

"I need to explain or you'd try to guess?"

"This is unnecessary. I'm fine."

John looked at the impressive bruise on Holmes' right cheekbone, noticing the freshly damaged skin with soil and brick particles embedded into it, and shook his head.

"Don't provoke me, or I might not be answerable for consequences."

"John… I didn't expect it to turn out like this."

The detective's voice sounded muffled and supine.

"Yes. Yes, of course," John took a cotton ball from the first-aid kit, dipped it into disinfectant and, gripping Sherlock's chin firmly, raised his face towards the light. "Try to hold still this time, and I'll finish quicker. Okay?"

Their gazes met, and Holmes risked a small smile.

"Okay."

They fell silent; John carefully treated the damaged skin, and Sherlock watched him with a strange thoughtful expression.

"So, Moriarty again?" Watson asked finally, removing dirt from the detective's cheekbone with soft touches.

Sherlock's eyes widened.

"How could you… Ah! I should've guessed. Mycroft?"

The doctor simply fished his phone out of his pocket and offered it to Holmes.

"I'm surprised you didn't notice it right away."

Sherlock opened the 'Inbox' – and frowned.

Two last messages from Mycroft were basically copies of the ones from the other senders. One of them was his – sent to John but hasn't received.

Watson put the cotton ball away and looked at his friend.

"Why you sent me away earlier? Why you didn't tell me about this message?" he stick on the last band-aid and sat on the stool nearby, still watching Sherlock who now was biting his lips nerviously. "We could've gone together, and everything would've been much simplier…"

"No," the detective shook his head. "I realised instantly it was a trap, and wanted to be prepared. Moriarty could be watching us. That's why I pretended to send you away – as if I'd decided to take the bait alone."

Sherlock looked at the mobile's screen again.

'I'm bored with this hysterical fool. Eddlestone. Come and get her.'

"So they worked together?" John absentmindedly began cleaning his wounded knuckles. "Moriarty and Amalia Sweet?"

"Not exactly," Sherlock touched the band-aid on his cheekbone with his fingertips and winced. "First murder was accidental, as you remember. The second was planned, and that's when he hoticed her. Without Moriarty's support, without an access to a high-quality lab she couldn't have prepared her killings so thoroughly."

"Then why had he turned her over to you?" John took a sip from Sherlock's mug and cringed – the drink was already cold and too sweet for his liking. "Was he really tired of playing with her?"

"He doesn't like broken toys. And he doesn't like when somebody messes his plans. He was amused when Amalia did all those perfect killings. But when she gave vent to her emotions and made a first mistake…"

"Moriarty decided to get rid of her?"

"He decided to get rid of both of us," Sherlock his hands through his hair and smiled a tad enigmatically. "Or rather, Moriarty decided to check what I'm worth. Well, it was an excellent game."

John pursed his lips and turned away.

A sudden change in the doctor's mood didn't go unnoticed by the detective, but he had absolutely no idea what to say in this situation.

Some day he will understand.

He will learn.

Because it's a small price for having a friend who will always cover your back, isn't it?..

"Are you finished with this?" Holmes nodded towards the first-aid kit.

"Yes, of course..."

"Excellent."

Sherlock jumped to his feet and left the kitchen. A few moments later there was a strange noise and rustling in the living room, and after that – a creacking of the sofa.

"You're welcome!" John said pointedly, closing the first-aid kit and putting it back into the cupboard. "Feel free to ask. Anytime."

"For the record, you're partially the one to blame," Sherlock answered in the same manner. "And I didn't deserve this, by the way. What would the normal people do in such situation? Take offence?"

John moved to the sink to rinse off the mug and snorted.

"No, Sherlock. Normal people hit back."

Watson spent a few moments more tudying the kitchen – his medical habits demanded to leave the table clean.

But the fatique started to take its toll again, and Watson started to get sleepy. If only he could sleep at least for two hours more than usually…

He stepped into the living room to bid Sherlock goodnight… and stopped short.

The detective was sound asleep, curled into a ball on the sofa.

Nearby, on the small table littered with old newspapers, two mobile phones were charging.

John Watson's Nokia.

Sherlock Holmes' Blackberry.

**And that's the end of the story :) We wish to thank everyone who reviewed, favorited and put this story on alert. Thank you for your attention, it's really means a lot!  
**

**Oh, and there's one more thing: if you want to see some art for this story, there are links on my profile page.  
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